It Takes A Village

On Friday night Chup was flying home from Houston after a week-long business trip. We decided it would be romantic to meet up and have a late-night dinner together. Our big mistake however was in thinking we could have a late-night dinner in Provo. Everything in Provo closes at ten. Almost everything. Let's just say, if you aren't a college student, eating past ten in Provo is a tricky conversation of "do you think we could look like we belong there?" and "maybe if we wore beanies?"

But, well, there IS Village Inn.

So we met there. I was running late and asked Chup to order for me.

And as I pulled up in the parking lot I could see him through the window, at his table, alone.

And heaven help me, I got giddy.

My vocal chords started making these spastic noises--like trapped laughs in my throat. As I got out of my I car I thought it would be funny to tap on the window where he was seated. But because of the tilt of the shutters he could hear my taps but couldn't see me. So I watched him look around for my face. And this little detail of the night made me even more giddy. More spastic noises accumulated in my throat.

When I was twelve I heard a woman give a speech and at Young Women activity about marriage. I remember she said, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but after awhile those butterflies you feel when you see the man you love will go away." It was like the biggest disappointment of my life. As you can see, I've never forgotten it.

But she failed to mention those butterflies can be replaced with chirpy throat frogs (?).

And as I entered the restaurant Friday night the hostess asked me if I needed a table for one, but I shook my head and blurted some froggy-like "no thank you" and in a dizzy-spell of excitement headed towards my husband. It had been a long week away.

And there he was with his biscuits and gravy and a plate of hash browns. For me he had ordered a giant waffle with strawberries and cream.

And it was still hot.

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