It all started over lunch.  A sheepish look, and the declaration, "I did something stupid today."

You didn't want to tell me. You thought I'd laugh. But when you finally admitted that you had bid on a vintage Airstream trailer, I was delighted. In our way, we laughed and chatted about how we would decorate it. It was a 60s model, not too big, and so we decided on deep purple shag carpet, velvet throw pillows, a white duvet for the foldout bed, and silver accents. I'd make coasters and a serving tray out of the extra labels from the wine you had bottled. We talked about the folding chairs that would sit under the blue canvas awning as we looked at the pictures on eBay. Your breath was warm on my neck. 

            You were like a little boy the day you drove it up to my house. Gleeful over your shiny new toy, you couldn't wait to show it off. You opened the door, and gallantly let me in first. The 40 year old springs creaked with welcome as I stepped in this silver bubble. It held promise. Promise of adventures, promise of trips together.

             As we pulled out to the street months later, leaving your neighbors gawking at the departing monstrosity that dared park on their secluded street, we laughed in delight of the outlandishness, theirs, and ours.

The campground was abandoned in January, which was fine by us. The late afternoon sky was bright winter blue, the sunlight weak but warm on our skins as we walked out to the lake. I wanted to go fishing, but you wrinkled your nose, so we walked to an outcropping and I watched you free climb to the top. So easy, you proclaimed. So graceful, I thought.

            I made my famous campfire meatloaf with coal-baked potatoes, and we sat in our chairs eating and watching the lake grow still and the sky grow cobalt with the gathering dusk. Dizzy with wine, I did the dishes inside, and then crawled under the down coverlet and into your arms. Around 3 am, the rain started. Drumming on the aluminum hull it woke me, and I laid there and listened to the storm in the dark. Sleepy after awhile, I snuggled back into your arms. You reflexively hugged me, and I drifted away.

            It was cold and damp the morning we left. You were still asleep, and I had started the fire after scrounging some dry wood, knowing you'd laugh at me for not making your coffee on the stove inside. The fire going and the water on, I walked back down to the lake. Beautiful clouds scudded by, in a hurry to the next congregating storm. I hugged my sweater closer to me, and heard you call my name. I turned and saw you standing by the fire, looking at me, calling me to come back to breakfast.

            We were happily quiet most of the way home, commenting only on where to have lunch and how lovely and green the hills were this time of year. I was thinking about our next trip, you were probably thinking about the week ahead. As I stretched outside your house, unloosening my body, you kissed me and thanked me for a wonderful trip.

"More to come, I hope?" I asked.

"Of course," you answered, as I drove away.