Molly's taking time tonight to slip off her flats, shake down her hair, have that extra glass of ______ (what the hell, I'm not driving). Let's take some time tonight. I'll take out my bag and finally show you all those little trinkets I've been collecting. We'll both lean in when we laugh.
Pretend that you made me a desperately delicious dinner -- probably something in a pasta -- and that now we're going to linger over the last bits of the day with some wine and get chatty. You'll tell about the time that you regret and I'll show you something I don't show people unless I'm very, very tipsy.
Here. Here are some of the things.
First, hum this song to me during dinner and you've got THIS linguist before I've even seen the bread. love. love. love. love.
Some advice is good. Like when to "quote". And when not to.
Then, we'd probably giggle over some confessions. Like how Mollys swishy in the drawers, wet bottomed, shamefully besotted for the golden-throated (ahem) Howard Stern. And speaking of him always calls to mind my favorite entendre in Shakespeare.
Twelfth Night's, Malvolio:
By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very
C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; and thus makes she her great P’s.
What a crass man! (Shakespeare) But, so TRUE! Who has not glimpsed a hand and thought, "So thin! Too bad..." or "Who knew? How interesting!"
If Stern has come up, I'm sure sucking it is not far behind.
And before I turn you down that one last time -- yes, I'll finish the bottle, but no, none of that for me tonight -- I'd love to share one about being specific. It fits as a happy ending to our evening. The article - not yours.
