Quite obviously, Miles and I have reached the pinnacle of our spontaneous, wild, crazy, and otherwise youthful relationship. It's all downhill from here; last night was proof enough.
We left work early—early being before 11:00pm—to catch a show playing at the Cinema Grill. The Bourne Supremacy was playing at 6:30, so we scurried to catch the show. We were home from the theater by 8:30.
Yawning, stretching, sluggish footfalls...the place was full of 'em. Miles plopped tellingly on the loveseat, heavy eyelid-ed and dull. I, being the highly intuitive sort, discerned that his thoughts centered upon a sleepy agenda involving a bed, pillows, and perhaps a comforter for good measure.
Unwilling to allow such a staid turn-of-events on a Friday night, I suggested a movie. You know, because watching a movie at home seems more like a wild-and-crazy time than just falling asleep at 8:30.
Miles agreed, on the condition that we lay on the couch together to watch the thing.
"Sounds fair enough," I thought. Besides, I was chilled from the theater's temperature, and Miles packs some heat.
I'm lucky if I saw ten minutes of the movie. Miles is lucky if he saw 5.
He roused me at some point. We traipsed to bed. I remember none of this.
We slumbered until ten this morning...awaking to a sleepy gray day...no use getting up at ten! Phooey, I say! We each showered and returned to bed until noon. Oh blessed bed, how I do enjoy your comforts!
A person cares marginally less about the boredom factor of their life while under the influence of fatigue. However, sleeping through a movie as opposed to going to bed at 8:30 lends to that intrigue of two youngsters fighting the inevitable. We're still on top of that young-thing. Oh, yeah. Watch us go. Woo.
