The Shallow Man Archives: Postcards From Paradise

When I stepped off the car at NAIA, I had been practicing heavy breathing for half an hour. I was worried my palms would be sweaty, that my breath wouldn’t be fresh, that my butt wasn’t perky enough, that my last-ditch dieting efforts had been unfruitful, that she wouldn’t show up at all, that something somehow would fuck this up. Nothing in my life worked out seamlessly.

And then I saw her walking quickly in as I trudged down the hall to baggage claim. She brushed my cheek and swooped me up all at once before I could say much. I think she said something like, “hi cutie” and then buried her face in my shoulder. We were both just happy, and we knew if we just hugged, we wouldn’t have to say anything. We could just be there, in the moment.

She held onto me tighter, wrapping her leg around me. We stopped the flow of traffic down the hallway. We bumped into the wall. We made a scene. We were a black-and-white postcard. We were in love.

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