Spring. Yes, it is here, really here, in full bloom, literally, making me wonder if. If ever.

It is supposed to be just talking, just talking, and then, it is not. We are no longer talking, the room is warm, warmer than before, too warm—and yet, just right—and I know he is going to, think he is going to, want him to, am not sure (can anyone ever be really sure?) that I would want this to stop.

And yes, it would be wondrid and splenderful, and would it be too much like a teenager to say I would never wash again? Yes, of course it would, but it never hurts to think it.

It must be spring.