Ordinary World
A fictional blog on the collision of ordinary life with extraordinary events.
Ordinary World
June 15
We go into town, and I drop Sarah at the Wal-Mart to buy wheat and canned goods. I drive over to the hardware store, which sells reloading supplies. Their prices have gone up again, but they have what I need: hollow point bullets and H4350 smokeless powder for the bolt-action .270, and flat-nose bullets and BL-C(2) powder for the lever action 30-30. I pick up enough to reload five hundred rounds of each.
I didn’t used to have much use for guns. In the city, people live too close together. Tempers flare too easily, and having a gun handy can create results that cannot be undone. Up here in the country, things are different. We don’t live so close together. In fact, we’re so spread out that a handful of sheriff’s deputies patrol an area of 3,300 square miles. The first time I went out of town on business, someone came to the gate in the middle of the night and scared the hell out of Sarah. The dogs scared him away, but it made me change my attitude. I don’t ever want her to get hurt, and with a cop maybe an hour or more away, that means she needs to be able to defend herself. I got her a nine millimeter pistol and a twelve-gauge shotgun, and taught her how to shoot them both. She got pretty good. When we got the chickens, we had to start worrying about coyotes, and that meant a rifle. And since we had to practice in order to stay comfortable, that meant shooting. I found that I liked it, and over the years I acquired more guns. Sarah didn’t object, but she didn’t fully share my enthusiasm. She recognizes the utility of having firearms around. She’s quite good with both the pistol and the 30-30. We just pray neither of us ever has to use one in self defense.
Sarah calls me on my cell phone and asks where I am.
"Still at the hardware store," I tell her. "I'm leaving now to come pick you up." I don't mention that I'm at the sporting goods counter, coveting a Springfield Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol. I don't have the money for it anyway.
A few minutes later, we're loading a hundred pounds of wheat berries and fifty pounds of flour into the trunk of the car, along with bags and bags of canned goods.
"I bought out the store," Sarah says.
I assume she's joking.
I didn’t used to have much use for guns. In the city, people live too close together. Tempers flare too easily, and having a gun handy can create results that cannot be undone. Up here in the country, things are different. We don’t live so close together. In fact, we’re so spread out that a handful of sheriff’s deputies patrol an area of 3,300 square miles. The first time I went out of town on business, someone came to the gate in the middle of the night and scared the hell out of Sarah. The dogs scared him away, but it made me change my attitude. I don’t ever want her to get hurt, and with a cop maybe an hour or more away, that means she needs to be able to defend herself. I got her a nine millimeter pistol and a twelve-gauge shotgun, and taught her how to shoot them both. She got pretty good. When we got the chickens, we had to start worrying about coyotes, and that meant a rifle. And since we had to practice in order to stay comfortable, that meant shooting. I found that I liked it, and over the years I acquired more guns. Sarah didn’t object, but she didn’t fully share my enthusiasm. She recognizes the utility of having firearms around. She’s quite good with both the pistol and the 30-30. We just pray neither of us ever has to use one in self defense.
Sarah calls me on my cell phone and asks where I am.
"Still at the hardware store," I tell her. "I'm leaving now to come pick you up." I don't mention that I'm at the sporting goods counter, coveting a Springfield Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol. I don't have the money for it anyway.
A few minutes later, we're loading a hundred pounds of wheat berries and fifty pounds of flour into the trunk of the car, along with bags and bags of canned goods.
"I bought out the store," Sarah says.
I assume she's joking.
June 14
As if yesterday’s news needed something more to get its point across, today one of the largest trucking companies in the nation announced it would seek bankruptcy protection on Monday. The article I read on the internet said the price of fuel had made operations too expensive, plus they had a line of credit with the now-failed Chicago bank, which the new owner intended to call. The one-two punch had forced them to close their doors.
Rumors say another bank failure will be announced on Monday. I don’t know what this means, but I think we ought to take another look at what we would need to be more self-sufficient.
The weather’s nice enough: this afternoon, I rototill manure into a small garden plot and plant more seeds: peapods, Indian mustard, radishes, lettuce, spinach, bok choy, and raab. These are all crops that should do well for us, and I don’t feel like taking chances.
When Sarah comes home from the post office and the local market, I invite her to sit on the porch with me.
"It's so beautiful here," she says, not for the first time. And it is. Despite temperatures in the mid-90s, there's still snow on the mountains to the north and east of us.
"It's the most beautiful place on earth," I agree.
I let her settle in for a moment before I change the subject. "I planted more seeds in the garden today," I begin.
"Really?" she asks. "I thought you'd planted all the garden beds."
"I had," I concede. "But I tilled and planted a plot of hardy stuff along the west fence. There's a major trucking company that announced today it's going into bankruptcy. I just worry that if we don't grow our own vegetables, we may not have any."
Sarah thinks about this for a moment. "You worry too much," she says. Then she stands and heads for the kitchen. I hear her rattling pots and pans, perhaps starting dinner. I give her plenty of space.
Later, I've left the porch and begun loading cut firewood into a wheelbarrow so I can stack it on the wood pile. I turn to see Sarah bearing a glass of cool water and a plate of hot, sliced banana bread.
"Have a slice," she says. "It'll never be better."
I stop what I'm doing and comply. It's a nice treat on a hot, June afternoon.
"I was thinking about what you said," Sarah says, as I chew a mouthful. "I don't like to think about the worst happening, but it wouldn't hurt to be prepared. What do we need?"
"More wheat," I tell her. "That's the main thing, because we can grow our own vegetables, and we have eggs and milk. But there's no grain I know of that grows here."
"What about fruit?" Sarah asks.
"We should get some, I guess," I agree. "Canned, I suppose. It keeps longer than dried."
We make our way back to the kitchen, where Sarah begins a shopping list. "How are you set for ammo?" she asks.
"I think I've got plenty," I tell her, thinking of the thousands of rounds of 7.62 x 39 up in the hay loft.
"How about for the .270 and the 30-30?" she asks. "We may need to hunt at some point."
"Good idea," I say. "I'll pick up some extra reloading supplies when we go to town."
Sarah shows me her list. It's got more on it than what we talked about.
"Yarn?" I ask her, reading from the list. "Fabric? Nutter Butter cookies?"
She grins at me. "I just wanted to see if you're paying attention," she says.
June 13
Friday the Thirteenth. The news reports say one of the big Chicago banks failed today—the largest bank failure in American history. The analysts worry that other big banks, who won’t be able to collect on their outstanding loans to this one, may fail, too. The FDIC will step in, of course, and pay back the depositors. The Treasury will no doubt have to print more money to make good, devaluing an already inflated currency. This does not bode well.
I haven't paid much attention to the credit crisis, bevcause it hasn't affected me. I don't have a mortgage, adjustable or otherwise. I know my local bank loans its money conservatively, doesn’t lend to other banks, and keeps a reserve higher than the regulators require. Still, I wonder how safe my money is there. Will I wake up one day to find that my assets have been frozen and all the checks I wrote are about to bounce? An FDIC reimbursement some months down the road wouldn’t do much to ease the immediate pain.
We already keep a few hundred bucks in cash around the house for emergencies. But just in case, I stop at the bank and draw out two thousand dollars more: a hundred crisp twenty dollar bills. They don’t buy as much as they did a year ago, but for now, dollars are still the currency of the land. I did stop at a pawn shop today while I was in St. George to see about buying gold. I had to wait in line, and when I got to the counter, they’d sold all the gold they had: jewelry, coins, everything, and at prices far higher than I’d have been willing to pay. Apparently I’m not the only one taking precautions.
We already keep a few hundred bucks in cash around the house for emergencies. But just in case, I stop at the bank and draw out two thousand dollars more: a hundred crisp twenty dollar bills. They don’t buy as much as they did a year ago, but for now, dollars are still the currency of the land. I did stop at a pawn shop today while I was in St. George to see about buying gold. I had to wait in line, and when I got to the counter, they’d sold all the gold they had: jewelry, coins, everything, and at prices far higher than I’d have been willing to pay. Apparently I’m not the only one taking precautions.
June 12
Early summer is one of my favorite times of year: the mornings dawn cool, but the afternoons warm to the eighties and nineties. The trees have leafed out now, and the garden shows its promise. The native plants in the field have not yet passed for the summer. It is perhaps the land at its most beautiful.
This afternoon, I take the Kawasaki up on Jackrabbit Mountain, about ten miles west of us. With a fabulous view of the whole valley before me, I sit under a tree and eat a sandwich. The smell of pinion and cedar fills the air, and a pair of hawks soars overhead. I love where I live, but a trip to the mountain always makes me feel even better. The trees stand in marked contrast to the sagebrush of the valley floor. Afterwards, I drive my car to Parowan to visit the bank and top off the gas tank. Keeping the tank full has become a routine for us: however high the price of gas, there's a good chance it will be higher tomorrow. At well over $5 a gallon, we've had to plan our trips carefully.
It’s hard to believe, but today the price jumped another forty cents—since two days ago. I know oil production in Mexico has fallen off, and Iraq and Nigeria are unpredictable, but this is crazy! I’m supposed to drive a hundred and sixty miles to St. George and back tomorrow, for a doctor's appointment, and that’s going to be expensive.
I wonder how the truckers do it— but the answer is, some don't. Already, we see fewer semis on the I-15, the main artery between the Rocky Mountain states and California.
This afternoon, I take the Kawasaki up on Jackrabbit Mountain, about ten miles west of us. With a fabulous view of the whole valley before me, I sit under a tree and eat a sandwich. The smell of pinion and cedar fills the air, and a pair of hawks soars overhead. I love where I live, but a trip to the mountain always makes me feel even better. The trees stand in marked contrast to the sagebrush of the valley floor. Afterwards, I drive my car to Parowan to visit the bank and top off the gas tank. Keeping the tank full has become a routine for us: however high the price of gas, there's a good chance it will be higher tomorrow. At well over $5 a gallon, we've had to plan our trips carefully.
It’s hard to believe, but today the price jumped another forty cents—since two days ago. I know oil production in Mexico has fallen off, and Iraq and Nigeria are unpredictable, but this is crazy! I’m supposed to drive a hundred and sixty miles to St. George and back tomorrow, for a doctor's appointment, and that’s going to be expensive.
I wonder how the truckers do it— but the answer is, some don't. Already, we see fewer semis on the I-15, the main artery between the Rocky Mountain states and California.
June 11
Our chickens are aging. One day in March, Sarah went out to feed them and collect the eggs. She handed me the egg basket while she took her boots off in the entryway.
"It feels pretty light," I observed. “How many eggs did we get?” “Sixteen,” she replied. “Sixteen eggs out of twenty-five chickens?” I said. “Someone’s not pulling their weight. Maybe some of them need to be retired?” “It’s still cold,” Sarah reminded me. “But some of the hens are over two years old. They might have stopped laying. Once it warms up, we can separate them one at a time and see whether they’re laying or not.” “Okay,” I agreed. Hens don’t lay as much in cold weather and short days. Even keeping the lights on all evening—judiciously replaced with CFLs to save on expenses—and even with heat lamps going all night, we never get as many eggs in the winter as in summer. “It’s been warm for a couple of weeks,” I point out to Sarah today. “Do you think it’s time to see which chickens are laying?” “I guess so,” Sarah agrees, reluctantly. We both know what that means: the hens that don't lay will become dinner. There are a couple of exceptions: the "pet" hens that Sarah has become particularly fond of. There are three of these, and I accept that they'll live out their lives until they die of old age.
“We’ll need to separate them one at a time," Sarah says. "Can you help me set up the dog crate?” We get the crate out of the storage shed: a wire box about four feet long, two feet wide, and three feet tall. Sarah puts a ceramic dog dish in for food, a quart-sized water dispenser, and straw for bedding. Then she catches one of the older hens and puts her in the crate. Our chickens are of the Delaware breed: white bodies with black markings. They’re a dual-purpose breed, theoretically good for both laying and eating. But we don’t eat them very often. I find them a bit tougher and gamier than a store-bought bird, perhaps because the factory chickens are confined to cages for their entire lives. Factory birds never build up muscle tone, and never have the chance to graze for wild greens, bugs, and small rodents. Our Delawares are fine in a crock pot with tomato sauce or marinated in orange juice. But they don’t make good fried chicken—especially from a two-year-old retired laying hen. One hen looks pretty much like another. Though each has her own personality, we wouldn’t be able to tell most of them apart without some kind of markings. We put plastic bands around the hens’ legs when they mature to identify them. The different colors indicate the year they were born as well identifying the individual bird: blue for two years ago, orange for last year, white for this year. The hen Sarah pulled out was blue-white-blue, a two-year-old bird. She’s a good natured hen, and I hope she still lays. I don’t like retiring any of our birds, but the good-natured ones are even harder than the mean ones.
June 10
Now is the time of year for gasoline price increases. It happens every year: demand increases, and several refineries shut down for whatever reason. This year was no exception. Three major refineries in California shut down, one for storm damage, one because of a fire, and one had some kind of a spill. The price of gas has already doubled since January. The news analysts warned us it would. Still, it’s hard to believe.
In the cities, I’m sure mass transit is setting records for ridership. Out here, we have no buses. The only way to town is driving. That means we have to cut our trips down to save money. Every time I go in for work, Sarah goes with me. She buys groceries and runs errands while I work, then comes back and picks me up. Rarely does our timing coincide, so we’ve both taken to carrying library books with us. I’ve read more Robert B. Parker already this year than I did in the last three.
Often I ride my little Kawasaki to the post office and, when necessary, to the bank. It’s eight miles round trip to the PO, sixteen to the bank. I’ve made maybe ten or twelve trips and used less than a gallon of gas so far. And it’s fun, except when the weather is cold.
Sarah thinks we should get a horse. It might make some sense if the price of gas continues to climb. But we have no pasture, and you can’t feed a horse sagebrush and greasewood. That means we’d have to buy hay and grain every month.
I wonder if we can run the cars on something other than gasoline. Can you make ethanol out of Russian thistle? I doubt it. Also known as tumbleweed, the stuff came to the Dakotas in a grain shipment in the 1880s. Now it covers much of the West—a prime example of a noxious weed. It’s so prickly, even the goats won’t eat it. If the stuff had a use, someone would have discovered it by now.
Bill called me today to tell me his son Jeff graduated college. Jeff is twenty-six now, having spent some time in the military after high school to earn money for college.
I still wonder sometimes if I have somehow failed by not having children. Yet at the same time, I am painfully aware of how many problems in the world are caused by too many people. Wealth increases, but population increases too, so that half the population of the world still lives in squalor. Nothing, it seems, can be done for them, because as we prolong life spans, as we improve conditions, they have more children and spread the resources even more thinly than before. I cannot ask someone else to do what I will not do myself. So on moral grounds I feel I should not have children.
But, to be honest, my objection is far more personal: I like silence, and children are anything but silent. Perhaps that’s my selfishness rearing its ugly head. In any case, I made my decision. Sarah is too old now for children, and I am far too old to raise them anyway. Imagine being 65 when they hit puberty! No, childrearing is for the young.
June 9
Spring finally gave way to summer—or so it appears. We haven’t had frost for days, and National Weather Service says we won’t have any for at least a week. I started tomatoes and peppers in peat pots in April. Now it’s warm enough to put them in the ground. Sarah and I will plant cucumbers, lettuce, and parsley, too. Meanwhile, the cabbages, snow peas, radishes, coriander, and onions that we planted back in April begin to show promise.
We plant ten four-foot-square raised beds this year—two more than last year. Four of them grow spring and fall crops, and six we plant with the summer crops.
Each year, I build two more beds and fill them with store-bought soil and peat moss, with a healthy dose of composted goat manure. The raised beds improve drainage, and the soil mix is far better than the heavy, alkaline, iron-bound clay that occurs here naturally.
Two years ago, we started planting fruit trees in raised beds too, because no matter how much we amended the soil, the trees didn't survive the winter if we planted them in the ground. I built a huge raised bed a foot tall and filled it with topsoil. Then I added a second layer of raised bed and topsoil, leaving a step about three feet wide all the way around. I planted raspberries and gooseberries around the outside, and apple and cherry trees in the middle. They’re doing much better this time. We may even get our first crop of apples and cherries next year. With the warm weather, the sagebrush and greasewood start to come out of hibernation. Pigweed sprouts, and Russian thistle, and bindweed, and tansy mustard and purple mustard and prickly onion. Sarah's allergies have been bothering her for weeks now. But soon enough, the long summer drought will begin, and the native perennials will die off for the year.
The jackrabbits have come out on force, too: a huge spring crop preparing to feast on all the new growth. As much as I hate to, I take out my .22 rifle, patrol our land, and shoot at the rabbits. I scare more than I hit. But if I don’t make the effort, the rabbits will continue to multiply until they’ve eaten every green plant in the valley. Then what would the goats and chickens and antelope eat? Crows and ravens take advantage of my work. At least the rabbits don’t go to waste.
Each year, I build two more beds and fill them with store-bought soil and peat moss, with a healthy dose of composted goat manure. The raised beds improve drainage, and the soil mix is far better than the heavy, alkaline, iron-bound clay that occurs here naturally.
Two years ago, we started planting fruit trees in raised beds too, because no matter how much we amended the soil, the trees didn't survive the winter if we planted them in the ground. I built a huge raised bed a foot tall and filled it with topsoil. Then I added a second layer of raised bed and topsoil, leaving a step about three feet wide all the way around. I planted raspberries and gooseberries around the outside, and apple and cherry trees in the middle. They’re doing much better this time. We may even get our first crop of apples and cherries next year. With the warm weather, the sagebrush and greasewood start to come out of hibernation. Pigweed sprouts, and Russian thistle, and bindweed, and tansy mustard and purple mustard and prickly onion. Sarah's allergies have been bothering her for weeks now. But soon enough, the long summer drought will begin, and the native perennials will die off for the year.
The jackrabbits have come out on force, too: a huge spring crop preparing to feast on all the new growth. As much as I hate to, I take out my .22 rifle, patrol our land, and shoot at the rabbits. I scare more than I hit. But if I don’t make the effort, the rabbits will continue to multiply until they’ve eaten every green plant in the valley. Then what would the goats and chickens and antelope eat? Crows and ravens take advantage of my work. At least the rabbits don’t go to waste.
June 8
This afternoon is 80 degrees, dry, with a light breeze carrying the smell of sagebrush. A golden eagle glides low over the fields, and white, puffy cumulus clouds float lazily across a deep blue sky. The mountains hang on the horizon as beautiful and unreal as a painted backdrop. Truly we live in the most beautiful place on earth. I spend the afternoon in the garden, weeding and watering. It is a perfect day.
Last night, after we turned out the light, as we snuggled in bed as we always do before going to sleep, I found myself marveling at the life we have together. We have no debt, not even a mortgage on our home or land. My business brings in enough for us to live on without much difficulty, as long as we’re careful. We live in a postcard, with snow-covered mountains to the north, east, and west of us—a panorama nearly 270 degrees around. Half the world’s population lives on two dollars a day or less. Less than ten percent has internet access. Some five hundred million suffer from starvation or malnutrition. Seventy percent are illiterate, and the vast majority don’t even have a bank account. As Sarah’s breathing slowed, I felt the weight of her head against my chest. I realized, not for the first time, that she and I live a charmed life in an extraordinary world. Did we do something to deserve such special treatment, or was it just the luck of the draw?
June 7
I found it difficult to work next to Sarah without touching her, and without grinning like a fool. If our coworkers failed to notice that something had changed between us, it must surely have been from lack of observation.
Sarah and I arrived in separate cars, of course, in order to maintain appearances. But Sarah hadn’t brought a lunch that day, since I had nothing to eat in my fridge except milk and cheese, so I bought her a burger off the lunch truck. If anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.
After lunch, Nancy sidled up to Sarah’s desk. “Hey Sarah,” she said, in a stage whisper. “What’s with the turtleneck on such a warm day? You got a hickey or something?”
Sarah smiled. “I wish,” she replied. “I just didn’t make it to the dry cleaner last night.” How she said it without blushing, I can’t imagine.
I turned my face toward the wall as I winced. That morning, I’d asked Sarah about her turtleneck too, knowing I hadn’t given her a hickey. She’d confessed that she had an ugly bruise where her ex had pushed his forearm against her throat. She had another on her cheek where he’d slapped her, but she covered that one with makeup.
The bruises blossomed over the next few days, turning various colors more appropriate to flowers than skin, a regular reminder that all was not yet right in the world. But we went about our business as if no problems hung on the horizon. After work that first day, we met at the grocery store and negotiated our first joint food purchase. Sarah liked Sugar Smacks and cookies. I liked whole grains and avoided sugar. She liked beef and potatoes, I preferred chicken and broccoli.
At times, I wondered how two people so very different could ever live under the same roof. But we did. Each night, we’d go back to my apartment and cook dinner. Sometimes we took turns, and sometimes we’d cook together. That, I decided, was encouraging: if two people can cook together without killing each other, there’s nothing they can’t do. The repair shop took four days to replace the glass in Sarah’s car, and insurance covered the cost. She turned in her rental car and, from all outward appearances, had returned to the way things were before.
Except now she lived with me. At the end of our first week together, we went down to the bank and opened a joint checking account. On the way home, Sarah asked, “Would you like it if I made you lunch?” I gave her a quick glance, returning my gaze to the traffic ahead. “They’re going to know,” I said. “If we both show up at work eating the same kind of sandwich, they’re going to know we’re together.” Sarah thought about that for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t think I care.”
At times, I wondered how two people so very different could ever live under the same roof. But we did. Each night, we’d go back to my apartment and cook dinner. Sometimes we took turns, and sometimes we’d cook together. That, I decided, was encouraging: if two people can cook together without killing each other, there’s nothing they can’t do. The repair shop took four days to replace the glass in Sarah’s car, and insurance covered the cost. She turned in her rental car and, from all outward appearances, had returned to the way things were before.
Except now she lived with me. At the end of our first week together, we went down to the bank and opened a joint checking account. On the way home, Sarah asked, “Would you like it if I made you lunch?” I gave her a quick glance, returning my gaze to the traffic ahead. “They’re going to know,” I said. “If we both show up at work eating the same kind of sandwich, they’re going to know we’re together.” Sarah thought about that for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t think I care.”
June 6
Sarah climbed out of bed early. I rolled over, glanced at the clock, noted it was 5:30 am, and went back to sleep. When I emerged at seven, she was dressed for work, had coffee brewing, and was busily surfing the web on my computer.
I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, which made her smile. “You got up early,” I observed. “What’ve you been up to?”
“I wanted to shower and get out of your way,” she replied. “The bathroom’s all yours.” “Did you eat?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I wanted to wait for you.” I felt a warm feeling spread through me. After all, my interest in Sarah was not getting her into bed, or at least not just that. I wanted her completely. Maybe now I had her, at least for a little while. “There’s not much to choose from,” I said. “I’ve got Cheerios and milk and some orange juice.” “I noticed the cupboard was pretty bare,” she said. “Cereal’s fine.” I got bowls, spoons, and glasses out of the dish drainer, and retrieved the cereal box from over the stove. I would, I guessed, have to buy some groceries—if Sarah was staying. As I poured cereal, I said, “Last night was really wonderful.” “Yes,” she said, “it was.” I poured orange juice and milk and set the bowl in front of her. She gave me a funny look. “What?” I asked. “If I eat as much as you, I’m going to be as big as you,” she replied. “I don’t think you want that.” I grinned. “Not really,” I said. “But that’s an image that’s hard to imagine. Just eat what you want. This is going to take some getting used to.” “You’re telling me,” she said. But she smiled as she said it. “Are you coming back tonight?” I asked. Sarah looked serious for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think I should?” “Do I think you should?” I repeated. “That’s a stupid question. I…” I trailed off. What I wanted to say was that I wanted her to stay and never leave—but since this had been our first date together, logically that seemed a bit premature. “You what?” she prompted. “I’d like you to come back,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn red. “That’s not what you were going to say,” she said. “Maybe not,” I acknowledged. “But it’s what I said.” Sarah grinned. “Okay,” she said, amiably. “Be that way. But go get in the shower or we’ll be late for work.”
“I wanted to shower and get out of your way,” she replied. “The bathroom’s all yours.” “Did you eat?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I wanted to wait for you.” I felt a warm feeling spread through me. After all, my interest in Sarah was not getting her into bed, or at least not just that. I wanted her completely. Maybe now I had her, at least for a little while. “There’s not much to choose from,” I said. “I’ve got Cheerios and milk and some orange juice.” “I noticed the cupboard was pretty bare,” she said. “Cereal’s fine.” I got bowls, spoons, and glasses out of the dish drainer, and retrieved the cereal box from over the stove. I would, I guessed, have to buy some groceries—if Sarah was staying. As I poured cereal, I said, “Last night was really wonderful.” “Yes,” she said, “it was.” I poured orange juice and milk and set the bowl in front of her. She gave me a funny look. “What?” I asked. “If I eat as much as you, I’m going to be as big as you,” she replied. “I don’t think you want that.” I grinned. “Not really,” I said. “But that’s an image that’s hard to imagine. Just eat what you want. This is going to take some getting used to.” “You’re telling me,” she said. But she smiled as she said it. “Are you coming back tonight?” I asked. Sarah looked serious for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think I should?” “Do I think you should?” I repeated. “That’s a stupid question. I…” I trailed off. What I wanted to say was that I wanted her to stay and never leave—but since this had been our first date together, logically that seemed a bit premature. “You what?” she prompted. “I’d like you to come back,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn red. “That’s not what you were going to say,” she said. “Maybe not,” I acknowledged. “But it’s what I said.” Sarah grinned. “Okay,” she said, amiably. “Be that way. But go get in the shower or we’ll be late for work.”