Okay, time to move this story on. Part 1 and Part 2 are getting lost in the mists of time. It's just that, well, you'll see, when I eventually get to the end (and, sorry, that won't be today, it's a long story, this is just the next installment.)
It was not too long after the drinks with friends that I had a couple of those lovely, long, lazy lunches around my kitchen table, in the orange kitchen. It was Heritage Day, September 24th, and it just seemed right to extend an invitation to The Person Who Seemed to Click (TPWSTC). It was a large-ish lunch, with Pop and various others in the initial plan but then Pop cancelled, as did a few others, and I thought, perhaps, this particular day would not be our next meeting. I was wrong, it was.
Unperturbed by being the only 'unknown' at a table filled with old friends, TPWSTC came, and sat with us, and slotted in like a comfortable cushion on an old couch. I wrote about it, actually. A little cryptically, as I am wanton to do.
And then some gentle SMS-ing, another comfortable lunch, and then a flurry of SMSes. All, of course, coinciding with my moving in with my parents, for the great floor overhaul of The House in the Middle of the Street. Inconvenient timing, indeed. It was that stage of nothing's-happened-yet-but-I'm-pretty-sure-it-will-but-maybe-I'm-wrong, heart fluttering every time my phone bleeped... the time when everything seems a little brighter and Mills and Booney.
Living back with parents, going through the motions of a new flirtation, a surreptitious affair, the Maybe Stages, set upon a backdrop of my parent's house, I felt like I was fifteen again. Maybe that had nothing to do with being at my parents, though. Maybe that was just love blooming. Deliciously.
More to come, it is so hot I can't type anymore. Since when was 38 degrees celcius an acceptable late Summer temperature?
16 hours ago