There are certain signs of summer that are irrefutable. Crazy, shaggy, unbrushed hair. Faded t-shirts brushing the tops of jeans caked with dirt and grease and grass. Ice cream sandwiches in tree-top forts right before twilight turns into night. And, yeah, the summer cold, which I am just today getting over. Nicholas has it, too, but being 34 years my junior, is feeling a bit more spry.
p.s. There is only Diet Coke for me, and I almost always go to the store for Kleenex–although who knows what brand of tissue I end up buying. And now, now I can’t see or hear or write the word twilight without imagining star-crossed lovers and glittery skin. You win, Ms. Meyer. Point. Set. Match.