Show Me The Moon.

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I have to write about this. It is going to be a post completely without any mention of the new level of hell I’m walking through. It’s still there. But not for this post. Not in the last few hours.

—–

He’s tall. His Northern accent is so safe, and so contrasting to mine. He is passionate about adventures and travelling and that makes me fascinated. Last weekend, we went for a drink which turned into two drinks which turned into dinner. Tonight, we went for dinner. We talked throughout.

We walked. We walked and talked about everything and anything. We played pooh sticks. We walked until we found a bridge, with some sheep the other side, their lambs hopping about beside them.

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We watched the lambs, laughing at them. We watched the rabbit, and then the fox. He kissed me for the first time, cuddled up against the gate. We kissed under the bridge, laughing at our echoes.

We walked and saw bats (he called one Albert) and ducks (Dave and Doris) and fish in the stream. When we got back to our cars we weren’t ready to part, so we sat cuddling on a bench, talking about the stars. We kissed.

He walked me back to my car, far past my bedtime already. We said our goodbyes, and he walked away, but two minutes later he came back.

“There’s a perfect full moon,” he said. “Come with me, I’ve got to show you the moon.” And he was right. It was perfect. The moon, the evening, the kiss.

He came back to show me the moon. I love that. Meep πŸ™‚

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3 responses »

  1. How lovely that you were able to experience what my therapist calls “the deliciousness of life.”

    It sounds like the sort of evening my husband and I would share when we were dating, over 25 years ago.

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