They are laughing on the porch again. The creative writing lessons Jules has begun to give a couple times a week are over for the evening. They have shared their stories and life moments each found interesting, critiqued the use of descriptive adjectives to create imagery in the setting, but now the conversation has digressed into just talking. In many ways, I recognizing this creative writing to be much more a segue into the teenage years.
From the couch in the living room, I do my obligatory email and Facebook checks while I hear them both smiling from ear to ear. And then quiet. So quiet all there is, is the dog huffing as she looks longingly at the door. Then 2 pffh's just seconds apart, a small plink as the BB hits, and more squeals of delight. The boy is becoming quite a shot and Dad is now having to really try. As it gets dark, The Barracuda begins to chatter. He will talk about anything and everything. Talk, and talk, and TALK. A word gets fit in edgewise here and there by Jules, a clarifying question or two, but generally the idea is just to listen. Listen, and laugh, and banter back and forth in a decidedly male way.
I'm inside making tea and trying to figure out just what late night snack I'd like to share with Jules. The changing of the guard happens when The Barracuda goes to bed. Then Jules is mine. We get to sit out on the dock and chatter together (though I must admit, I'm the talker). By that time, the swallows will have been replaced by the bats as they dance about eating all the insects. By that time, the stress of the day will have melted off. By that time, we will be able to just be adults dating again. He'll have wine; I'll have tea. He'll be sweating in a T shirt and shorts; I'll be wearing my favorite wool hoodie and snuggly sweats. He'll have on two pairs of socks and sneakers; my feet will be bare. It is the same all 77 days of these long, slow summer nights, but it never gets old.