Pad Thai and Bookshelves

A letter to the person I've never met.

I imagine that one day, we’ll be in a bookshop, perusing for our picks for the next place we visit, taking them with us and wearing them thin like our favorite sweaters,

You’ll look at me and laugh as we empty our hands at the register, finding our choices are the same, and turning to go and roam the shelves again to find different books to share.

Or that we’ll be cooking in the kitchen, mastering the finishing touches for our picnic in the park I heard so much about when we talked on the phone.

I see me, wearing your old school shirts, laughing as I run to cover you with paint, as we decorate our new apartment.

You don’t mind that I spill a little, to you, seeing me laugh is worth the little messes, and I find you patiently scrubbing the paint stains the next morning.

We laugh, open the pad thai we ordered, and stare out the open windows into the city below, as the summer heat meets the lazy wind, trickles in to tickle our necks.

We don’t care that we don’t have furniture yet,

That takes time.

But for now,

I think of the bookstores to come.

And that’s what makes the crinckle in your eyes,

That I hear over the over the phone,

So worth it.