Love Is Like This at the Bone, We Hope

I'm sure you're wondering how I did on Thursday night's pathophysiology exam. I am, too. We get the results back next week, after class. I texted Dave after I had handed my test in and gone out to wait in the hall for everyone to finish. I told him I felt as though I had both woefully under-prepared and woefully over-prepared.

After class (because, make no mistake, there was another two hours of lecture after the hour-long exam), Dave picked me up and we stopped by Gyros to have Greek food. Salty, delicious, but very salty Greek food.

Then Friday came.

There's a storm sitting over the city right now and I've got Barometer Brain--have had it since Wednesday, late morning--it's the kind that bangs into my head and knocks everything around and turns my sleep schedule on its head and kicks my dreams into sweaty near-nightmare territory and then sits and waits for the storm to pass. By that I mean, it's been raining on and off for awhile.

Today, Friday, I got no sleep. After Dave left for work, I went back to bed and tried only to be woken up by a text from my (former) study buddy who wanted to kvetch about the class. I don't want to encourage that kind of thing, so I sent a few noncommittal answers back and then tried to get back to sleep.

I did finally get another two hours of sleep in the afternoon.

Dave was home a bit early, so we did a bit of shopping and then went off to Magokoro to have ramen for dinner. We got there just as it opened and streamed in behind two other parties. We got waited on first (which I attribute to a habit of always being painstakingly polite to servers and also tipping like I have access to Bill Gates's bank account, both of which will quickly sear you into any given server's memory). We slurped down our ramen and then vacated quickly as there was already a line of people waiting for seats. We came home via the fizzy drink store, with giant fizzy drinks.

It's still poetry month, so here is one from Thomas Lux:

           I Love You Sweatheart

A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.