Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I walked home from post-brunch in a drizzle that threatened to become a downpour at any moment. As I plodded toward the very edge of the hilltop, hands in my pockets and headphones on, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. And then just as I reached the part of my walk where the view opens up and the mountains and Lake Union are just sitting there, unconsciously breathtaking, my iPod swung into the chorus of "Life in Rain" and the skies opened up with the sort of rain that fills the throats of all the flowers.
It's tough to hold onto any shade of sads when your city is sending you love letters like that.

I wanted to be a cowboy, stomping through rooms with my six-shooter slung low on my hips, knocking bottles off fences without even aiming. But then you swung open those saloon doors with an unbreakable sort of glass behind blue eyes, and I'll bet that stealing my sheriff's badge was just icing on the cake. You could have your ten paces out in the street, but I'm not sure I'd remember to turn and shoot.