Saturday evening, after danish and cappuccino at a local coffeehouse, lazing in the sun, curling into Nick on the picnic blanket as the temperature cooled and the rain spat, hiking with Jeff and Kara (and Nick) at Devil's Lake, hiking with Nick at Parfrey's Glen, getting soaked to the skin as we sprinted back to the car from the path at Parfrey's Glen in the sudden outbreak of a deluge, riding drenched in the sun-encased car, ordering a pizza for carryout from my cell, getting a $4 discount for having a "pleasant look" to me, eating, watching Fever Pitch and part of Bad Santa on TV....well, after all that, I was tired. I'm exhausted all over again just by reading that run-on.



I didn't see much of Bad Santa, which was ok because from what I saw of it, Billy Bob Thornton was just plain mean...and needed a shower. I was pretty much quiescent and heavy-lidded upon Nick's over-comfortable leather couch. The movie must have finished, for I awoke to the sounds of Nick tidying up the kitchen. I automatically stood and reached for the empty water bottles to help, and Nick grabbed them from me, telling me to go to bed.

I don't remember much after that point...mainly falling asleep and wondering how I got to the bedroom. The next morning, just after six ("just after six" is major sleeping-in for Miss it-is-2:30-and-I-am-wide-awake), I awoke for the first time. I sniffed at the air, thinking I smelled a coffee-laced tinge but knowing it could not be so. The evening-prior, I did not prepare coffee for the next morning—the fact a glaring mark on what was otherwise a perfect day, weather notwithstanding.

So I lay there, staring at the dawn, inhaling the essence of what I convinced myself to be coffee. I ruminated, I mulled, and I thought of Nick. Would he have....? Could he have....? Oh, I don't want to get myself excited and then be disappointed! But it smells so good! A steaming mug of French Roast would fit so pleasantly between my cool palms...but what if I go down to the kitchen and there's no coffee? Then what?

To put it mildly, I soliloquized Hamlet to shame.

Eventually, my feminine curiosity getting the better of me, I padded to the kitchen and saw the filled carafe. Well, it could just be left over coffee from yesterday, I chided, trying to keep myself grounded. I shuffled nearer and stretched my left fingertips forth. Heat. I leaned my head near the spout. Fragrant freshness. I poured myself a cup and purred. I was so contented that I set out to make Nick berry scones in gratitude.

A win-win situation for all.

Which reminds me...Nick asked in his obnoxious way yesterday what made a scone different from a biscuit. "Nothing," I replied, advising that the Brits called their biscuits scones. "I think we started using the term "scone" more with the advent of coffeehouses. Sounds ritzier. Coffeehouse goers are a teensy bit snobbish." Nick looked pointedly at me and agreed wholeheartedly.