the show is over and we're left with intimate knowledge of industrial steam irons, beard nuzzling, contraband stockings. we shared black light and reminisced over diana gabaldon and yet another hat-in-progress. all those nights clutching in the dark and hoping for an uneventful walk home down loring ave.

at the post-production meeting we clapped and cried and regretted not voicing our balcony fears. they called me by name and laughed together at my sewing assertiveness, shank buttons on the run. I forget that this really isn't new, that I've been backstage with hair pins and cold sweats for years now, six years. I turned in my key to the shop, reluctantly among the petticoats and brocades; I drank hot chocolate by the serger.

tonight I taught origami and the mysteries of paper-cut snowflakes. our tree is covered with cranes and crisp white; the angel is kate winslet in lace and christmas cheer. I remember all our carols and sing infront of the yule log dvd I laughed at senior year. we call the boys in from across the hall, and we enjoy the glow.

one week of classes left, one week until Miles leaves.

he's leaving in a week, and I'm busy writing down everything I can remember. every conversation, every whispered promise, every night I spent with him. I can't help feeling that I have to save up. it's finally winter, and I wish I could stay asleep until he comes home.





ash @ 12:05 AM