When I finish with the plants, I put them under the lights, clean up, and leave for my second date with Anneliese. I take my copy of "Waiting for Guffman", and we watch it in the basement while her daughter sleeps upstairs. Anneliese laughs in all the right places, which I snootily think bodes well. My taste in films is largely non-existent. When she says "Tommy Boy" is one of her favorite movies, I am so delighted I want to give her a noogie, but its early. Then she says she and her sisters and mother can recite every line in "What's Up, Doc?" and I admit I have never seen it. We talk and laugh and watch all the DVD extras and talk and laugh some more, and then, in the half-light of the foyer, I look at her smiling up at me and thank her for a wonderful evening and as I turn to leave a voice inside my head says, "If you don't kiss her right now, you are a clod," and I turn again, backtrack three steps, put my hand in the small of her back, draw her to me, lean down, and kiss her. She makes a soft little "mmmmm" sound that will echo in my heart until my brain fades to black.
Half delight and half panicked, I turn to leave and trip over the doorsill, not falling, but stumbling onto the porch like a drunk. Composing myself, I walk straight down the sidewalk, where I misjudge the curb and smack my knee into the car bumper.
Feels good.
- From Truck, a Love Story by Michael Perry
Buy The Book - proceeds to benefit
ACF
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