As a young girl, I would fanaticize of romantic getaways, travel, with a male partner. I vividly recall inventing an entire excursion in my thoughts prior to sleep. If an actual date was planned, each detail would play inside my head like a movie. Often times, I would grow so consumed with anticipation, I would look forward to the evening time, the time in which I was able to design the future date while marking through another calendar date. Of course, anticipation breeds expectation. Sometimes the actual date would prove to be less spectacular than imagined. As an adult, “real” life moves at a much faster pace and somewhere along the line, I began neglecting my imagination all together. Still, the anticipation remains.
 
In early March, Steven invited me to go to Orange Beach with him and another couple. Elated, I accepted. Within hours, he called to “Indian-give” his offer while replacing it with a better invitation, “I can’t go to Orange Beach due to prior obligation, but now I am thinking about the beach and I’d like to go at a different time. You?” I said, “Sure. When and with whom (like I cared?)” Then he made my day, “Three weeks? Just us?” The following day, we reserved a condo in Destin, Florida.
 
The anticipation immediately kicked in. The notion of the beach, him, a week without work, the beach, him entered and the countdown began. Steven and I had lunch together the day before we planned on leaving and I said, “I wish we were leaving tonight instead.” He agreed and so, we decided to leave later that evening.

With Steven. Taken on the balcony outside our condo.

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