Today, though, I’m a little angry. And I don’t feel guilty. It’s the third time this week I’ve waited eight minutes for her to return. When she finally strolls in through the double doors that lead to the parking lot, where she likes to smoke her cigs, I greet her kindly. Despite her portliness, her blue zip-up hoodie hangs loosely off her shoulders, the way a skinny teenager’s does. Her murky hair oozes of fresh cigarette smoke.
“Are you doing anything fun for Memorial Day weekend?” she asks politely, lively, perhaps sensing my annoyance.
“I’m going to San Francisco. To visit friends.”
“Oh, fun!” Her thundering voice correlates with the tubby figure it hails from.
“Yeah. What about you?” I invite her conversation.
“I’m movin’ in with my maaaaaaannn! Uhhh! Honey, I’ve been waitin’ fer this day fer soooo long. And it’s finally here!” Her smile is a Montana sky, wide and stunning.
And then my mood lifts, because I think to myself, there’s nothing like a woman in love.