It was last night.
A beer was poured into a mug with a strawberry resting at the bottom. It was polished off (believe it, sister) just around the time that I finished a thirteen page business plan, which was topped with a sticky note emblazoned with the reminder to BUY MORE ORANGES FOR THE FULL MOON.
I took the trash bins off of the street, put my bicycle inside of the garage, and watered the plants on the porch. I washed the dishes, put the dogs to bed, and dragged the laundry upstairs. The only thing left was The Phone Call, always the last part of my evening.
I told him about my panic, about the market conditions I'd spent the entire day studying, about how I was ready to slice my face off with a butter knife and start my life all over again, most likely with a kangaroo in the outback. I promised to write and take lots of photographs of succulents and koala bears and forget about the foreclosures that were tanking the comps by seventy five percent in more than one of our neighborhoods. "I'm sad," I told him. "And I haven't eaten since this morning and I probably won't sleep until next Sunday."
"A SEVENTY FIVE PERCENT DROP IN THE PRICES?" he gasped. "The only reason that you shouldn't be sleeping is because you are snatching those up!"
And I fell in love with him all over again.
And then I got busy.
(Andrew's all, "YOU DID NOT POST THAT VIDEO, Kelly. KELLY.")