Frankenstein

A long time ago, before Cindy and I officially got together, she took me on one of her infamous D.C. night tours (many of this blog's readers may recall the lightening pace at which Cindy drove you to 6 monuments in 60 minutes or you may remember the way your stomach churned when she shouted "Hold on! DC U-Turn!" if she found an actual parking space). That night we went to Iwo Jima, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Vietnam Memorial, and my favorite: the FDR Memorial. This was also the night that I earned Cindy's long-standing nickname for me.

I believe this was in December and it had to be about thirty degrees outside, but we did not care. It was one of those nights where at the end of it, you look at the person you shared it with and you both know, without a doubt, that the experience you had together has made an imprint on your soul.

Cindy drove me home that night and I remember not wanting to open that passenger door. I didn't want to walk to my front door. And I most certainly did not want the sun to rise. But, after a while, I finally stepped out of the car and started walking away, trying not to turn around. But then I heard the car door open and Cindy ran after me. She grabbed my arm and after catching her breath said, "Hey, I really enjoyed sharing this with you." I remember not being able to respond because the words in my head were doing battle with the emotions racing inside me and I could not reconcile the two to form a sentence. Finally, Cindy said, "I think this is where you hug me goodnight." So, I stretched out my arms (like a surgeon does when he needs his medical gown put on him) and just stood frozen in place. Cindy stared at me for a few seconds before finally taking my arms and positioning them around her waist, placing her arms around my back, and squeezing me tighter than I had ever been before. After about 20 seconds, she whispered in my ear, "Good night Frankenstein" and then walked back to the car.