When we got to his house, I made a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, poured two glasses of milk, and we scarfed down the food at the breakfast bar. He slid his plate toward me and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Unh-uh.” I placed my plate on top of his and slid the stack toward him. “I cooked. You clean.”
I found a spot on the family room couch and watched my boyfriend do the dishes, and after a few minutes, he joined me, draping an arm around my shoulders. I fell against him, relaxing in the moment. The whole evening, having the house to ourselves, and now, sitting quietly in each other’s arms was like pressing the fast-forward button on life. I could imagine a future with him: he would come home from work, and I would have dinner ready for him. By then I would have expanded my culinary expertise, and after a meal, we would cuddle on the couch and discuss the day. But my musings were interrupted by his less-than-subtle reach for the remote control. “I just need to check a couple of scores.”
“And then we can turn it off?”
“Why? What did you have in mind?”
“How about a game of Scattegories?” I suggested that particular game since it was on the top shelf of his bedroom closet.