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i dreamt of rupert grint the other night, and it makes sense now

23 Dec

We saw Wicked last night. Hot Fiance, our mothers, and I piled into the Juke a little after five for dinner at Zia’s at which the chicken parmesan was better than I remember, third place maybe on my invisible list of best chick-parm on the island, and that’s not bad. Used to love Zia’s, used to think it was the best restaurant in the world until it got crowded, until it cost more, until it seemed like a little too much noise, too many people, too much money for a plate of spaghetti. It got worse before it got better, and at five last night, it was just fine. Drove home to put my leftovers in the fridge. Planned to eat it later tonight, hunched over my laptop watching Supernatural, or something. On the way to the show, moms in the backseat, our favorite radio station stopped broadcasting one-third of the way through Hunter Hayes, and we listened to nothing until we were climbing up the Pali and I’d already eaten fifteen M&Ms from a Ziploc bag in my purse. But it was never too quiet, too strange, everything was fine. And then the play started, and then intermission, and then it began again and ended. It was wonderful, really great, everything I thought it would be, and I was perfectly content in the quiet on the drive back too.

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