Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I'm not telling this right. Lydia would want to throttle me, except she's met Sevario, so I don't need to fill in the details.

I could say what he looks like, facts like height or build or his curly hair, or his eyes that shift from laughter to inquiry like clouds drifting across the sun. Now I'm being melo-romantic.

But it's more the pull that I feel when I see him, the shudder when I hold his hand. He is my warm home. He, more than anyplace, feels like where I belong.

After dinner, we walk down First Avenue to Pioneer Square. By now, the neon is now, the bars are starting to fill, and the wind rolls off the bay at every intersection.

I nestle in close to Sevario, even though I'm used to wind and cold weather. I want this.

At the hotel, we climb the narrow flights of stairs to our small--and warm--room.

This is good.

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