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"Home Is Wherever I'm With You"

Each night I walk home with the Manhattan skyline to my right and immaculate brownstones to my left. Peeping in the windows as I saunter past, I try to figure out where that grand piano you always speak of will go. Wouldn’t it look nice tucked into that front corner? I’ll teach your fingers to dance across the ivory over a glass of Cabernet baby, don’t you worry about that. My eyes move down from the bay windows and onto the stoops, where the day’s Wall Street Journals are still waiting for their subscribers, wrapped in plastic. I start to imagine us sitting at the kitchen table, (once you actually start to wake up on time), sharing the news over a full pot of coffee before we go our separate ways for the next 12 hours. It’ll be ground fresh every day because unlike me, you prefer your morning cup to taste as good as it possibly can, whereas I just need to gulp something down quickly to come back to life.

I’m nervous—I told myself I would be more cautious with the dreams and plans this next time.

I’m standing outside our apartment building, punching this away into my phone as you walk up from the opposite direction, two bags of groceries on your arms. You greet me with a kiss and I ask to take a bag but grab the door instead. You turn the key, smiling back at me. There’s a look in your eyes that makes me want to throw my caution to the wind. It’s a look saying, “welcome home.”