Never let a girl go to bed angry at you, and never let yourself go to bed scared. Two rules I seem to have done an awfully good job of breaking this past week.
I incurred Roxanne's anger with my words on Monday night and with my deeds last night—the first was during an IM conversation when I stated that I was tired and might have a hard time remembering what we said the next morning, and the second was a post on this blog that I had hoped would convey some of my feelings about her but instead felt like public boasting on a part of our relationship that really shouldn't be public. (It came down, and I edited an earlier post, after she sent me a message asking me to do so.) Maybe I'm getting borderline paranoid, but now I'm worried—scratch that, terrified—that I'm smothering this amazing and promising relationship in its crib.
I love Roxanne. Genuinely and without reservation. She's warm, captivating, charming, intelligent, outgoing and curious, and the 40 hours I spent with her this past week only deepened the peace and contentment I feel whenever she's around. I don't think I let it show, but I was thrilled and relieved on Thursday night when she told me my feelings were not unrequited, that she loved me too. Before we fell asleep that night, wrapped up in one another, I briefly wondered if I had broken my streak of dead-end or spectacularly soured relationships.
But right now, I'm wondering if all I've broken are those two rules and our two hearts.
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