Tuesday, December 13, 10:45 PM. Brewer.

I’m lying in bed, waiting for Amy to finish “getting ready” in the bathroom.

“For what?” I asked.

“Use your imagination,” she said. But I’m trying my darnedest not to.

Our dates have been going great. We’ve been having supper earlier, and we agreed to keep family Bible time more focused each night. That way the two of us can have an hour or so alone together before it gets too late. Tonight we sat out on the porch under three or four blankets and just talked. Last night we played Scrabble at the kitchen table. Amy won, of course.

We argued a couple of nights ago, but we got through it. Is it strange that my optimism gets on her nerves but her pessimism doesn’t get on mine? Or is that the most natural thing in the world?