life as a sitcom

The city, at night.  Staying up until 3am.

Me, walking on the sidewalk, and you, walking just a step below me off of the curb so I can practice my balance and stand on my tip toes without fear of falling with no one to catch me.

Covering my face with both hands because I'm embarrassed that our conversation has steered into some serious topic and I've seem to have forgotten my personal stance on the matter... err, what were you saying?

Just pour me another and forget about it.

Moonlight trickling through dirty shutters, illuminating only small parts of this room that it wishes us to see.  I reach my hand out almost as far as it will go and wrap it around the back of your neck, remembering how good it feels to be able to touch something that's real.  Lighting this old fireplace that hasn't been used in quite some time it seems.  Sparking again and again and again until you're frustrated, and as hard as I try I can't help but laugh.  I'll hide my smile hoping you won't notice, but you do, and then the fire's lit and we're calm again.  I hardly can believe how pretty you make me feel, not a stitch of doubt in the way you look at me when I say something stupid or comment on how terrible my hair is today.
Well, it is!

I'd like to say the story ends here, make it beautiful and wholly romantic.  But we'll fight, and then we'll argue.  I'll toss things across the room and you'll throw your hands in the air so dramatically like you're giving up for good.  Then I'll cry, and you'll fix it, like you always do.  We'll have these moments more, too, don't worry.  But it won't be easy, and the telephone calls won't always work out the way they should.  I can't say what it is right now, but I feel I'm on to something good.