Somewhere lurking through the welcomed phone calls was a sneaky post on social media. He's got a couple of hotrod Fords and I've got a year old Ducati. We've got Willie and Dylan and peek-a-boos and twisting rings. Late nights belong to my couch and the horrid stench of smoke on his hands. We'll buy a birth gun for Rambo and watch the old timers play bocce on the water in Queens. He'll pretend to be re-building a Triumph while I pretend that it's fine that he doesn't ride. And we'll dance to Doo Wop with our shoulders. He'll spin me across the bench seat of his '51 Merc while we drive through the country on Saturdays and Sundays. My cheeks will burn from smiling and I'll yearn for his touch while resonating in the stillness that he hates. And we'll fuss and fuss and fuss on Wednesdays. Before and after movie night. When our bellies are full and off limits to raspberries. Because there's a sweetness that we can't let go and a playfulness we keep it tucked behind. He'll tell me to be careful in a tone that really actually means that he means it. He means it. And I swoon.