I've been giving some thought to how this worked out, and I think I've happened upon an explanation:
Annie and I figured out (during a lovely, though undocumented drive), that we have known each other for 14 years. And, yeah, I've known lost of people that long, longer, even, but Annie has been a big part of my life--a puzzle piece--for that amount of time. And I think that sitting in her sunlit bedroom in North Carolina feels too familiar. We're sitting on Pendelton Road, but we could be in her first house or the second one in North Carolina. Or I could be looking in on her sitting in the living room of her mother-in-law's house, weeks after Lila was diagnosed with a brain tumor, watching her lie wordlessly next to her baby. We could be in her Brooklyn apartment, or on the A train going up to her place in Inwood. We could be in the tiny living room of her first apartment with Ben in Rexburg. Or, the house that she and I shared before that. Or, more likely, sitting together at the information desk in the Kirkham, waiting for rehearsal to start or end or for something else to happen.
Annie, I think it feels too familiar to document. That maybe it doesn't occur to us, and also, that it would jar the rhythm we've spent the last 14 years establishing. So, we'll wait until we do something like the haunted America tour, or go to Europe to take our photos, and just leave our conversations alone.
Thorough perusal of Annie's college photographic archives
The movie Her, after which we were both like, "Hmm . . . meh."
Dreamy (and fancy) massages, complete with Star Trek bathrobes and seasonally scented neck pillows.
A dreamy four hours of Lifetime programming (what? Flowers in the Attic AND Lizzy Borden Took an Ax? Thanks Lifetime).
A sweet baby, and three sweet kids who--unsolicited--gave me hugs goodbye.
And, talking, talking, laughing, gentle gossiping, and more talking with Annie.