The heater is on and I am buried in blankets but I am still shaking

Last night. Last night, driving home. On a curve, near some overpasses. I glance down at the clock on the dash -- exactly 12:00. I'm halfway home -- more than, even -- but for the first time I notice the light in the sky. What the fuck is it? It is the moon, riding low on the eastern skyline, exactly half full (really it's a three-quarters moon but that's because the moon doesn't make sense from earth) and orangey-yellow, like a giant lemon wedge hanging over the mountains. Striking, and gorgeous.

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But what I will remember for the rest of my life: Sunday/Monday, 12:20 or just before. Filled to bursting with nervous energy and worry and to a lesser but more tangible extent with urine. I'm looking all around, compulsively -- forward, behind, to each side -- walking fast, not even seeing the rain on my glasses, blinking the water away from my eyes. Walking past the alley, I glance up it. And he's there. Miraculously there, tall frame and curly mop of hair unmistakable, even bedraggled by the rain. "Jay?" I call, beginning to jog toward him, "Sweetheart?" And I am just there and he all but collapses into my arms.