It was a bad beginning to a date night.
He was late. The babysitter was already on the clock, Harlow all but tossing my purse and umbrella out into the rain so she could get on with her night of TV and late bedtime debauchery. He hustled in, shaking off the rain only to be hustled promptly back out by a wife tired of cleaning up baby puke and ignoring that burgeoning sore throat.
The bar was full of blonde and silver divorcees and men in ties, a vaguely creepy scene, but we bellied up to the bar, sharing a pizza and some Rick Santorum jokes, and the wine began to smooth out the prickly sore throat. And maybe it was the wine, but it was so incredibly sexy to just listen to another human being talk, and be heard, and not feel obligated to spoon pureed sweet potatoes into the mouth in front of me.
We made it to GPAC in the cold drizzle, hoping we had missed the opening act, cause you know, that's how we're trained, right? We were ushered into the dark theater, appearing to be maybe the ONLY people to arrive late. Of course our seats were the dead center of our row. We squeezed down the aisle, flicking raindrops onto silently fuming strangers. Don't they know they are supposed to skip the opener, I reasoned. Yeah, it's these people in MY way when I'm the one on time.
And we sat down, and not only did I eat my words, I choked and sputtered on them.
We came to hear The Civil Wars, and I left in awe of The Staves, the three-sister opening act who had nothing but an acoustic guitar and three gorgeous harmonies. Even my jaded folk rocker hubby was mesmerized by the simple beauty of each song (and maybe by those lovely British lasses as well). It was a warm, cozy evening, and I woke up the next morning with "Mexico " on the brain.
And a raging sore throat.