marriage

I should blog this, I guess. I've been avoiding the difficult, stating the trivial. Always after the easier, softer blog. He wants me to marry him. I've been sort of married once. My son's father. We said things about being together forever, then he gave me to his best friend for the night. A biker ceremony. The guy's name was Mike Ireland, a tattoo artist with a ZZ Top beard and a chrome front tooth. The whole thing left me a little cold. Not Mike necessarily -- he was fine, as bikers go. But there I was, once again the common denominator in the strange events of my life. We'd just pretty much gotten away with attempted murder (I drove the getaway car) and it was all so romantic, joined by blood and vengeance and bits of leather.... So, all things considered, with my sweetheart today, at least my expectations are in check. If I get to sleep with him on my wedding night I'll be ahead of the game.

I don't know why I tell these stories. They're all true.

So, I'll marry him, move away to the rainy north, and live in an old neighborhood with root-buckled sidewalks, with rhododendrons and shaded porches strangling with wisteria. I'll marry the wild boy of my dreams, the man with thin skin and exposed heart, and we'll rebuild the old house to make room for all my clothes and I hope my memories will stay outside.