We slip out of our parent skins for a few hours and run away to remember who we are. Apart from the potty training and pull ups, we find each other again in the dark car, the one without the car seats. It’s still early for most, but late for us and we stifle yawns and race to make it to our date on time.

We have tickets in hand but so do many others and he drops me off to go and find a seat while he finds parking. The spots are few; I have to ask several to shift down so that there will be two spaces next to one another. “It’s so I can sit next to my husband,” I say.

My husband.

And I feel 20 again and flush and excited for him to find me in the crowd.

I guard the empty seat. I wait. My whole body waits for him. Many others would sit beside me if I let them. But I do not. I am so very married tonight.

His baseball cap rounds the corner and tilts backwards, searching. I stand, I wave, I glow. He climbs slowly, deliberately, toward me. Our knees touch in the dark, his bulk beside me is the opposite of me. He feels manly and solid and safe.

He holds onto my knee and I am twenty one again and anchored by his peace.

Tonight, for a few hours, I do not have to share him with jealous boys. I hoard his hands, his profile, his shoulders.

And I exhale. And find myself again.

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