You love trash day, yet you tire of the toil to the curb...lingers there with doing dishes. I digress. Let's say, years ago, a man you thought you were gonna marry, asked if he could move in . See, he was moving back to Dallas after living out of state. You thought about it. He hates cats--so he says. But he said he'd take out the trash. You almost sealed the deal-your had visions of sharing ice cream while fighting over what to watch on TV and you made sure your rattiest t-shirt was not in his eye shot and that a cat wouldn't use one of his shoes as a litter box. Then reality: your relationship was quite odorifus. Plain and simple: it stank. You remember his offer as you haul the trash bags to the curb.
You did love him. Still do, in a bittersweet chocolate kinda way. And you know he reads this blog. It's one of those shoulda, coulda, what woulda happened things.
Oh well. Trash is where it needs to be: on the curb. Didn't really have that much. Cats are fed. You're supper is done. Thursday Night TV is about to burst forth. Sinkful of dishes can wait until tomorrow.
Even after two days, you still pinch yourself that Black is the new President of the United States.
....and doesn't he take out the trash?