Fo' Sho'

The best part of the weekend had absolutely nothing to do with the weekend, really.

It wasn't when we got rather hammered and stayed up late laughing our asses off with my pals after finally arriving at their cabin at the conclusion of a drive that was at least 45 minutes longer than it needed to be because, until Friday at about 9:30pm, M3 hadn't known me sufficiently long or well enough to be privy to the sad reality that I should never ever ever be in charge of directions. To anywhere. Ever.

It also wasn't the moment when M3 went in for a alpine smooch on a blustery, deserted, snow-blown ski run and because our goggles knocked together, it took like two more tries to make contact.

Or even when we went sledding on Saturday and I totally ate shit and instead of coming over to make sure I was okay, he laughed hysterically and took pictures of the incident and for some reason that didn't piss me off in the slightest because if he really thought I'd actually broken my ass as opposed to simply making false claims to that effect supported by no medical evidence whatsoever, I know he'd have been by my side in about two seconds.

It also wasn't when roughly two trillion pounds of ice fell from the roof onto the deck above our bedroom at 2am on Saturday and as I proceeded to hyperventilate from having the crap scared out of me, he and his big ol' boner immediately ran upstairs to investigate even though he hadn't a clue what variety of burglar or large nordic and/or forest dwelling mammal he might encounter.

And still it wasn't any of the countless times I watched (in what I'm sure was a not-terribly-covert adoring fashion although I really tried to be all casual about it especially when my friend silently mouthed "oh my god" in my direction while M3 bounced the smaller of her two offspring on his knee) as he charmed my friend's sons, especially the teeny tiny one.

Or when that very same friend took note of the fact that M3's delightfully plump posterior isn't just a figment of my occasionally overactive imagination or periodic tendency to embellish my blog writings for artistic effect.

Or even how he took my hand in his and kissed it at least half a dozen times on the car ride home.

Instead, it had everything to do with the moment when, even though we'd had a wonderful weekend that we both hated to see come to an end because despite not mentioning it out loud we're both acutely aware of the hours ticking by, we also agreed that there was quite possibly going to be nothing better in the world than returning to my house after our long drive and finally getting "us" all to ourselves again.

And how, laying tangled up together this morning, every kiss bringing us closer to goodbye, knowing but refusing to verbally acknowlege that he needed to leave at least 20 minutes ago even though we'd been awake for well over 45, I told him "I hate this part."

(Because I really, really do.)

And he responded not by simply saying "me, too" but by expressing how after spending hour upon hour of uninterrupted time together over the weekend, "its something you want to have every day."

(Because it really, really is.)

And how, later still, having burrowed beneath the sheets and at least three too many pillows, trying really hard but pretty much failing to not feel sad while M3 prepared for the two hour trek back home under cover of cold and rainy darkness, it actually took him two return trips to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye before it finally stuck.

And then how, after our lips parted the very last time and he reluctantly headed for the door, I barely had even a second to lament how I'd do practically anything in that moment if it meant I'd never have to watch him walk away from me again knowing I wouldn't see him for five more days and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

Because just as M3 was almost out of sight, he looked back at me over his shoulder and smiled.

And told me he'd miss me.

So, anyway, its like I was saying...

The best part of the weekend had absolutely nothing to do with the weekend.

Really.