I burned my finger on a hot coffee mug.
The television is on.
Yesterday Erik and I marked twenty years since the day we met. Twenty years ago, it was a Saturday night, there was a tremendous snow storm, and Seton Hill was hosting a "House Quake II" party in Sullivan Lounge.
As a bright-eyed frosh, I went. Dragging my roommate with me. I wore black stirrup pants and a beaded flowered shirt.
And I met him.
He was the tall, quiet guy that I had been stealing glances at ever since we returned from Christmas break. Just as my roommate and I were ready to leave, he walked in. After covertly watching him stand off to the side for a while, taking things in, I walked up to him.
"Are you going to stand there all night or dance with me?"
I swear to God, those were the words that came out of my mouth.
Twenty years later, we laugh at how bold I was.
And now, tonight, I sit here. Alone. My burned finger smarts. The television is still on.
And my best friend of twenty years is in the hospital with an atrial flutter that was discovered during a routine physical today. They're monitoring him tonight and testing for clots tomorrow. We're hearing worrisome words, but none particularly devastating right now. The head of the cardiology department himself came in to meet with us.
Right now, we're hoping he'll come home tomorrow. Tonight, I'm home. Gav is with my mom, having a sleepover. It only makes sense that, at some point, this would happen. Everyone gets older, everyone's health changes. But, as cliched as it sounds, doesn't this happen to other people and isn't he too young? No, don't answer that.
I keep staring at the wedding portrait over the fireplace, as well as at the family portrait that hangs to its left.
My finger hurts. The television is still on.
It's 12:51 a.m.