That night they talked for two and a half hours about all things and no things and all the things between. Not caring about the time or miles or lack of sleep that would most certainly impact a HUGE day for her tomorrow. His voice was exactly the same as she remembered it 20 years ago, albeit older, more grown up. The inflection, the tone, the sighs, the “ums.” She closed her eyes and listened to the nasaly crack in his voice that happened every few minutes, increasing in frequency as the night grew deeper; and even though he may have been talking about things that hurt him from his past, all she could think of was “my heart is melting.”
She snuggled down even deeper when he said this was what he’d been looking for: to be able to connect with someone, talk to them, really listen to each other. And as he finished her sentence, the one that she so emphatically declared to her best friend time and time again “I’m tired of being their Saturday nights”… “I want her to be my Tuesday morning.” She stopped herself from screaming, as she sucked in a gulp of air, and pounded her fist in the pillow; asked him to tell her he didn’t just say what she heard; and he just laughed. That sweet laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and showed the tops of his teeth. And so did she.
“20 years has been too long, it was so nice talking to you again…” And so it began.