So... How's the Writing Going?

Well. . . I'm in bed at ten.  I set the alarm for five am.  If I'm lucky, I'll have two hours to myself before Dylan gets up.  I wake up around midnight on my side, my hip in a pool of cold wetness, wondering if I've pissed myself.  My bladder is bursting so it's entirely possible.  But I wasn't drinking (and even at my most drunk I've never pissed the bed, I've just heard that's what happens, and that's the first bleary thought I have, I'm not even drunk), I wasn't dreaming that I couldn't find a toilet (which is what I dream about when I need to get up and pee in the middle of the night), and if I pissed the bed then why would I still be able to get up and pee?  But my bladder is sizable, so maybe I have enough storage capacity to piss the bed and still need to use the toilet.  Maybe this is just a surprise my body has unleashed as I approach forty.  Maybe all forty-year-old men start pissing the bed, but they're ashamed of it so no one talks about it; it's just something you discover alone, in the cold watches of the night.

I Saw Love Today

A couple just ran into each-other’s arms in the street outside my window.  They kissed fiercely, surrounded by cold front air and blowing leaves, the sun shining down.  It was a gorgeous moment, right out of a movie.  Did one of them just get back in town?  Did they just get sensational news?  Whatever the reason, he swept her into the kiss, lifting her off her feet and carrying her down the street.

They struck me as the most beautiful couple in the world.  

I wanted to know them better, so I put my glasses on.  He had jowls and a paunch.  She had a muffin top spilling over wide hips packed into too-tight jeans.  But they smiled through their kisses, their beauty undiminished by my superficial judgments of their clothes and bodies. 

That's love.