I was drowning in work and internships and grad school and papers, and with the gent still finishing school more than 30 minutes away, our time together was scarce. But we always had Tuesday nights. On Tuesday nights, I'd make sure my time was free after my last class--even if it meant writing two papers the day before. He'd come to visit me, and mostly we'd just sit and talk and enjoy actually being in each other's presence.
And there was this one evening when we were doing just that, except we chose to do it at Starbucks instead of at my house. We stepped out into the crisp Indiana night, made the short drive to the only coffee shop open at that hour, chose the most perfect fall-themed drinks, and sat at a small round table for hours, just discussing life.
I remember looking at him--he never took off his stiff gray jacket--and just being taken with him. I remember thinking how handsome he was and how nice it was to have someone to talk to and how even though enough time had elapsed, I hadn't gotten bored yet. In fact, I still had butterflies. And I hugged my spiced drink with my hands, pulling it against my face, probably pretending to take in the aroma and the steam; but really, I was smiling to myself, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
So every time we have a coffee date--but especially in the fall--I can't stop but remember that night, the night I knew I wasn't ever going to stop being in love with him.