This isn't a class. It's a love covenant.

I like... 

... sitting at Village Inn at 11 on a Tuesday night, sipping hot tea with cream just as the conversation gets so uncomfortable I can hardly breathe. 

... discovering a dead battery in my 1999 maroon Mercury Sable after petting Chip, the horse with the Spartan mane, past midnight in the blank darkness of camp after a failed attempt at star gazing. 

... a #1 from Jimmy John's at 12:30 a.m., no tomatoes, as I'm on the brink of a breakthrough on my 10 page, double spaced history of sexuality paper. 

... following Lynne through the fluorescent light bulb aisles of Sunmart, slipping reduced-fat cottage cheese and avocadoes into the cart while she's preoccupied with the linguini.

... the faint taste of dirt as I sit in a worn, wooden Adirondack in late July and the wind removed the remains of 4 to 1 kickball match between 10-year-olds. 

... a strawberry margarita in the dimly-lit glow of the Starlight Lounge as I listen to a conversation about Elvis Costello three tables away. 

... the crisp January air seeping into my seventh story window as I wake up to a vibrating Samsung at 8:45 a.m.

... where all of this is headed.