Light sears through the edges of the blackout curtain, illuminating the room. The noise machine whirs and rises, then quiets — wave sounds. Our new air purifier hums softly, clearing allergens as we sleep. Phoebe lies between us, curled into the crook of your elbow, her nose breathing air out onto my face as we make eye contact.
I love these weekend mornings when I wake up before you and we have nowhere to be, nowhere to rush to. “Hurkle durkl’ing,” we call it. I sliced about it last year.
I pull out my phone to type this, still wrapped up in the full-cup-feeling after drinks and dinner with three friends last night. The four of us squeezed at a small round table at Café La Trova, sharing bites and venting, sipping our drinks and laughing. Four hours, watching a Friday night in Little Havana unfold. Live music playing loud, making us lean forward to yell, then yelling again after the inevitable “What??”
These ladies are a big part of what has made this place home for me since moving here four years ago, even though Miami fits like a shirt I don’t really like, not my style, with the tag sticking out. When I’m with them, I know I was meant to be here — at least for now.
Because Lizzie is moving away in a couple of months, building a new home in a new state. And two of us hope to leave within the next few years.
I fill my cup, and fill it again, holding onto this moment and these strong, brave, beautiful women who I can’t imagine my life without.
Writing With Abandon 
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