WARNING: mushy, mushy, mushy.
I hate driving. I don't do it at all if I can help it, but a mission in late June made my foot touch the pedal without any apprehension.
Birmingham International Airport is a relatively small facility, but there's still no stopping in the lane to pick up arriving passengers. Even when it's almost midnight and the last flight is coming in, one can't patiently wait at a standstill. It's probably a good thing, though--the few circles around the building kept my mind from jumping out of my body in anticipation of a flight arrival.
A call came, and I answered with a nervous greeting. It was Justin. He was in the baggage claim area, miles and miles away from his home in Poughkeepsie. A few minutes later, the same blonde figure I remembered from the hot fields of Manchester came out of automatic glass doors. He was still trailed by purple and green fireworks that only I could see. The boom boom boom explosion happened again when my feet were literally off the ground wrapped into a bear hug around Justin's waist.
The next two weeks were spent in Tuscaloosa. Tandem runs, peace sign pancakes, and daily doses of NPR were glorious highlights of the most recent summer of love.
(TBC)
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