When I was at work on Sunday, one of the girls I was working with was going on about the weather. It's that time here where it's so hot, it feels like the top layer of your face gets baked off the second you open up your car door.
The time of year where shade is a premium commodity, and you have to weigh the distance-to-the-door vs. shade-for-your-car vs. time-it-will-take-you-to-shop as you circle the parking lot, watching people wilt as they pick their way across the asphalt. And ultimately decide that your family doesn't need the toilet paper today, and if you run out, there's a box of Kleenex and yesterday's newspaper in the garage to tide you over.
Anyway, my friend said, "I can't wait for the monsoon." As if humidity on top of hellish heat would make the days that much more pleasant.
Yet I found myself echoing her statement. I love the monsoon, because I dig the thunderstorms. There's nothing like the sky going from bright sunlight to overcast and angry in 10 minutes; where you are drenched before you make it inside to tell everyone else, "Hey, it looks like rain." The skies open up, and it's fantastic. There's another reason why I like it, though...
"I love it when it rains like that. It reminds me of this one time when me and Mr W were first dating. We were totally making out in the carport on the side of my house and it was pouring rain the whole time. It was so cool."
"Wow, that must have been some make out session, if you can remember it that well after all these years," my friend said.
"I finally got the kissing thing right. And decided it rocked."
I remember that evening pretty well. It was the best two hours of my life up until that point, and Mr W was as much of a gentleman as a 17 year old boy could be. Really.
I know, however, if I asked him, he wouldn't remember it. Not more than vaguely.
And that's okay.
Because I know that even if he doesn't remember all the details, he remembers the sentiment.
Our anniversary is this Friday.
He never forgets that.