ticking of Tuesday
Plane tickets present a definitive endpoint for talking; the mental equivalent of a sign over your friend's head announcing how many hours remain before it's time to pack up yet again and fly back into your regularly scheduled lives.
Jeff ruffled my hair after a hug this morning and whispered, "Late night, hmm? I remember you getting in bed at about seven this morning." It had been light as I did so, leaden grey light filtered through a darkening haze of storm clouds and raindrops. Over the final two hours of conversation, the glass eyes of the windows brightened and lightened as ours grew gradually more heavy and lidded.
By the time the skies were morning-storm grey, most of our drowsy words were half-whispered with closed eyes.
Local friends have the luxury of time and unfinished conversation. A thought unfollowed can be tucked back into a convenient pocket and brought out again the next time you are together, because 'next time' may be as soon as tomorrow or as late as next week.
Thoughts unfollowed before Tuesday afternoon must be saved for the impersonal medium of late-night online conversation. Thoughts traded over the short distance of a couch cushion or two spill rich and thick, unthinned by the impersonal distance of time zones and cell phones.
Sleep - and photos - will come later. Right now, it's time to make cookies. It's hard to ignore the ticking of Tuesday.