Page 22 of Micah

Not because I pay the bills.

Just because I’m me.

I want what my parents had before life got hard.

The way Dad looked at Mom when he thought nobody was watching.

The little touches.

The private smiles.

The certainty that no matter how rough the day had been, home was wherever the other person was.

Maybe it's silly.

Maybe romance novels and reality TV shows with happily-ever-afters have ruined me.

But I still believe my person is out there somewhere.

I have to.

Otherwise, what's all this hard work for?

The bar.

The long hours.

The sacrifices.

The dreams I keep putting off until next year.

One day I'd like a family.

A little house with a wraparound porch.

A vegetable garden I'd probably kill because I'm hopeless with plants.

A dog.

Maybe two.

Kids.

A husband who'd steal fries off my plate and kiss me when he thought nobody was looking.

Simple things.

Big dreams.

The kind that feel farther away with every birthday that passes.

The bell over the front door jingles, and my fantasies give way to reality.

I glance through the pass-through window into the bar.

It’s the usual Friday night crowd.

A couple of regulars.