I am in a bit of a romantic mood tonight. The weather is delightfully mild this evening, and the moon is full and low over the mountains. My street is rife with blooming honeysuckle and roses. In short, there is not really a reason in the world that I shouldn't be walking arm in arm with some handsome chap, my skirt swaying as we stroll. Perhaps if we walked long enough my shoes would begin to pinch my toes and I would take them off so I could step on the cool grass. An older couple holding hands on a bench by the water's edge would smile at us as we pass, remembering when they were newly in love.
Well, there's no reason for this scenario not to come to pass except that there's, you know, no beau and no dress and no sweet couple on a bench. It's just me, slightly beery from a drink with a friend, in the stained shirt that I wore to work, humming On The Street Where You Live.
I opened a window to let the scent of honeysuckle in, though. My mom told me that when she was growing up, no one planted honeysuckle near the windows of houses where there were growing girls, because the scent of it is supposed to induce naughty dreams. I don't know about the naughty part, but I can see why they thought it might bring on dreaming. I'm kind of in a fog of them myself, and I'm not even sleeping.
