On Friday nights, we open a bottle of wine, boil a pot of spices, and hover over a fondue fire. Home: a small two bedroom apartment crowded by baby gear and toys; a little broken down island in the galley kitchen piled with spices and vegetables. Our arms brush against one another's on our beige, micro-fiber sectional. We watch re-runs and old movies.
Some days, I dream desperately about wide open spaces. I feel confined by walls attached to loud, drunken students. I feel sad about our half sized washer/dryer, our industrial carpeting, our dual functioning hall closet: soups and cleaning supplies stacked high. But, even now, I know we will look back on it with love and mysticism. Too close to drift apart.