(no subject)

[eor]

Dear derien,

Now and then I look down at the scars on my hands. There is one running from the knuckle of my right pinkie downward toward the palm. It is almost lost among the folds of the skin when the pinkie bends. But I remember that cut in particular. It happened thirteen years ago this month. I was hammering metal edging onto a piece of single strength storm window glass when the hammer glanced off and my hand came down on the glass. It wasn't bad. I can't remember if I got stitches or just butterfly bandages. But I remember the scar. Twelve hours later you and I were lovers. Sixteen hours later I was crawling back into work on zero sleep.

Since then we've seen a lot. We've had times when we were flush with money, times that we were living pretty lean. We've been active. We've been sedentary. We've climbed mountains and feasted in valleys.

And still you like me after all this time. I really don't understand why. It's gone on too long for temporary insanity.

I never could have guessed then just how well we'd fit together. Passion can make you wish something were true but rarely gives you any vision into whether it really is. I lucked out when it turned out the passion was just the beginning. I doubt there are one in a hundred who get to have something like this in their entire lifetime. Pity for those who don't.

yours,
eor