Sunday ran bright—
       Coal then the crew,
       patio laughter rounding the bases.

Monday barged in early:
       3:30 a.m. alarm-that-wasn’t-an-alarm,
                    incident one until 6:30,
                        a nap thin as paper,
                     then 8:45—incident two.
                         (because of course)

Office plans folded.

Irby’s became the desk,
       my stool, a ticket queue with a beer.

You arrived near eight,
    and we finally tried that Italian place
    we’ve walked past twenty times. (my mistake, not yours)

Fast, kind, perfect—
      a quick-bite sanctuary
      made for pregame and future “let’s just” nights.

Keeping it.

ALCS Game 7 after—
     Toronto took the ribbon…
     we shared a quiet grief
     with our new Seattle friends,
     touched foreheads with the NFL until midnight,

     let the day cool down properly.

I thought I’d walk you to your car—
            but you had that glint.

So we wrote a short chapter at Sylvan,
   quality over quantity,

   the kind of yesses that carry more than they weigh.

Today we dare the calendar: **Pata Negra**—
      a Real Date we’ve both been circling.

Yes, yes—planning is “the error”.

Maybe the trick is simple…
           call it a plan,
       treat it like luck,
 show up like we meant it.

We’re due.

If the day tries another stunt,
                 we’ll audible.

If it behaves,
   we’ll call that progress
    and keep the table warm.

Either way—
       meet me where the lamps are low,
       where the first bite tastes like relief,
       and the after looks a lot like us…

       walking out into a night that knows our names.