"If Angela was here,"

I tell Brian as we wait for a car to pass us before we walk across the road, "we would have made a run for it." Of course, I've had a bit to drink, which makes the idea even more appealing.

I imagine the Bri standing on the curb, shaking his head, as Angela and I take off over the asphalt. An SUV approaches. Indifferent, Angela's new ACL and my leisurely-healing metatarsal would scamper joyfully through the night, almost as if Pontillo's awaited us down the darkened roads. We would likely begin to giggle loudly and make a Facebook-related comment, or perhaps even a Ross Borden reference to "innate curiosity." The night would be officially concluded only after we'd checked each other's away messages prior to sleep.

As I check Angela's away message now from where she rests in the 845, I raise my Poland Spring to August 25th, to the beauty of receiving "offline" messages, and to Cortland's floor.