Author: Miss Kittys Ball Y Yarn
Note: This is very AU... circumstances are very different for our girls, and they've lives a very different life.

I am sitting here with my trusty laptop in the third booth on the right hand side and as I type I am at the same time waiting for you to meet me. It's our tenth anniversary and my eyes, not owning the ability to remain focused on the utensils in front of me, or the lap-top sitting precariously on the edge of the table again returns to the elegant wood and glass door of this fine eating establishment. "Chez Denny's" had been your idea, as I would have taken you somewhere equipped with cloth napkins, not that "Chez Denny's" paper napkins, tightly secured around a spork and butter-knife and fastened with a paper band around it's midsection isn't classy...it's just that I thought our tenth anniversary would have included cloth napkins...not that I'm hung up on cloth napkins per say-- My inner diatribe is cut short as my eyes disobey their task once more to flick heavily at the entrance. I look down at my watch, you're not late, it's just my overly-punctual-self fighting for a spot in the drivers seat.

Buffy, the head waitress and my best friend, keeps stealing uncomfortable glances in my direction as if she's worried that I've been stood-up. Which, after ten years is utterly ridiculous. With that realization ( I will never admit to consciously thinking that) I begin to relax a little. The deadline for my new book looms heavily in my mind though and I am, in the next instant.. once again on the verge of mentally freaking out. I run my fingers over the slick black buttons of the laptop. My editor is going to flip monday morning when I walk into her office with nothing more than a title and a couple very rough paragraphs on the importance of being me. That's the less polished way of saying that I've not even completed the short bio page that will be tucked neatly a the end of the book whence it's completed.

Taking up the pencil and place-mat, I turn the latter over to reveal it's blank underbelly. I trace the lines that show through the back, an egg and slice of bacon begin to take shape under the small yellow pencil. As I draw, my mind drifts back to our first meeting....On impulse, I put down the pencil and abandon the paper as I clear the screen on my computer of all but the title at the top. The flashing curser, stops momentarily as I press Enter and begin to type.

The night we met, your father had dragged you over to my house, along with your baby brother Donny, in order to attend a birthday party my mother was hosting for a couple of rowdy three year olds from the teen parenting course she was teaching at the highschool. I was up in my room that night, after-all I wasn't about to go down there and join in the mass of children and birthday cake that was probably coating everything by then. Hyper children were not my thing at the time, so I had taken refuge in my room. My mother (God bless her as she would tell me much later) had had the presence of mind to think that you might not enjoy such company either, and suggested that you go upstairs and get acquainted with her eldest and onliest daughter.

I was up on the top bunk of my bed (yes I still slept on a bunk-bed at that time. Laughing is not permitted at this point in the story as it was not a bunk bed in the conventional sense of the word, but more of a cleverly elevated sleep surface. Which basically meant it was gutted, with the bottom bunk removed, leaving the top for my personal sleeping enjoyment. I have often wondered over the years if my parents had been secretly thinking about adopting a hopeless child from some third world country, when they bought me that bed for my fourth birthday. It never happened. The whole contraption was painted purple, for added appeal. Though I saw none at the time, I'm sure, looking back on it now that the purple really gave the bed something extra, and highlighted the green of my eyes or something like that.)

I was reading a book on that 'afore mentioned bed, having just started college I had been known to do that on occasion (and even now, though no longer in college I am still known to do that...minus the big purple bunk bed of course) It was one of the thicker texts, psychology maybe or sociology...(that part is a little blurry. In college the courses have a tendency to blend together, creating a conglomerate smoosh of information, where one subject is indistinguishable from the other, unless of course there's a test the next day, then I'm convinced that the material read refuses to enter the brain at all...I'm not sure where it goes exactly but the saying "in one ear and out the other" comes to mind. )

So, when you stepped through the door and into my life, I had been very surprised. It was a surreal moment. Where you had not been before, there you now were. There had been an instant connection, love at first sight maybe. I smiled, you smiled. It was all smiles for a good five minutes, Then my wits returned and I gracefully left the top bunk of the bed to come down and smile at you some more. (Hey, what can I say? when you find something that works, go with it.)

Even looking back on it now, I find myself surprised at the immediate effect you had on me. There was something about the way you were looking at me that made me think you might've been having the same internal dialog as I was. I remember saying something like 'HI' or the even worse 'Hey' or something equally common and appropriately lame.

I was going to try to play it cool though, going from warm smiles to the sub-zero temperatures of coldly indifferent in five seconds flat. I don't think you were fazed though, because the warmness of your presence in my space never wavered.

You looked around the humble room I called mine, commenting on the various sheets of paper clinging artfully to every wall. Back then I was a novice Doodler... artist if you will (that's pronounced Arte-est, by the way. It gives the word class, to say it like that.) I was embarrassed as your eyes boldly oogled my goods. (that was the less artsy way of saying drawings, sketches, and horribly done pastels) In the five seconds it had taken me to put up this wall of cool formality, you had, taken that same five seconds and managed to come away with something about me that I had not offered to share. (How did you do that?)

You took in my inner being, rolled it around your mind before offering it back to me, nested inside a neat little package of awe. You said how you liked the way my sketches (Two in particular, one of my mother and the other of my uncle's parakeet) seemed to take on a life all their own. You ran your fingers along the bookcase against the wall as you walked the length of my space.

I, on the other hand, was completely taken off guard. Here you were so comfortable in a place you'd never been and I was standing like stone as if I had no right to be in my own room. (I would realize much later that you had owned me at that moment, you were much stronger than I was, even then.)

You asked me to draw something for you, something you could take with you, so I sat down at the desk that served as both a study station and an art space. I was slightly startled when I felt you sit down next to me on the chair. I guessed you wanted to a get a closer look at a genius artist (remember the pronunciation) at work. We sat there together, me clinging to one half of the chair and you comfortable on the other half. You leaned over me as I struggled to keep the pencil in my hand, in my hand while the sweet tang of your breath enveloped me.

After an eternity of secretly struggled moments, I had finished what impressively turned out to be a pretty good drawing of a sleeping cat. You took the paper from me, your eyes downcast, you brought those rich blue eyes up and our gaze met. Green to your powerful blue. I was the first to look away. And only when I did, did you bring your eyes to focus on the little drawing I had done in your honor. You whispered "thank you, it's lovely" And I felt myself blushing so profusely that I was sure my cheeks were burning bright enough red, that I could have been mistaken for Mr. Koolaid, complete with a stylin' pair of white high-top sneakers.

We were still side by side on the chair. I examined my fingers, as I didn't trust myself to speak. You had put your head on the desk, with your arms acting as a pillow. Your eyes were closed and I suddenly realized that you had fallen asleep. I didn't know it then, but you hadn't slept in two days and this was the first time that you had felt safe enough to close your eyes.

In the spirit of the moment, I too brought my arms up onto the desk, folding them under my head, I laid down, facing you. You were breathing softly, the cardigan you wore draped loosely around you and I though then that you looked beautiful, like an angle or something corny like that. It was a very silly thought to have and I silently told myself that over and over again like a mantra of sorts. If I kept repeating that to myself then maybe the urge I was feeling to press my lips to yours would find a home elsewhere , inside someone else's head. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being ripped out of the fourth dream stage by a sharp knock on the door. I wiped at an imaginary spot of drool at the corner of my mouth as the knock reappeared. Whoever was out there intended to intrude on this particular moment and they were obviously not going to take no for an answer. That second knock awakened you as well, and for a moment I could see a look of confusion in your blue eyes, before it passed and was replaced by a look of recognition. "who is it?" I called out lamely. The intruder on the other side of the door took this inquiry as permission to turn the pretty brass knob and let themselves in, without further interrogation.

It was my mother standing in the doorway, and she said something about your house and the need for you to be in it. I'm confused for a moment and then the words sink in. Oh right, you had a home, I had forgotten that little tidbit of information inside my Hasty slumber. You had a home and your home needed you back. Right. Got it. My brain finished processing this information a millisecond after yours did. (did I mention you had and still have a brilliant mind?)

You were already up and smoothing the wrinkles from your cardigan. I stood up too, 'Well, this is fairly odd', I remember thinking. Here we are having already slept together, (in the most innocent sense of those words) and now we were faced with the awkwardness of my mother standing in the doorway like an overly obsessive security guard, drunk on her own power and waiting impatiently for the kids to clear out of the food court so she could lock up.

I think I muttered something, But I'm pretty sure now, that it had been as intelligible to you as it had been to me. We exchanged another look almost as if to say "I'm not ready to leave this interaction" but it went no further as we lacked the know-how to put that very thought into a series of intellectual words that could be both spoken and understood by both parties in the ten seconds we had to say our goodbyes. It didn't even occur to me in those moments that I could see you again. You were disappearing to another world and I was remaining in this one. Which world was the real world though? I wondered even as you turned to leave. My mother was holding the bedroom door open for you and You slipped out past the obstruction of her body. You didn't turn around to look back at me again...instead, you slipped fluidly down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door.

My fingers stop their movement along the keyboard as that last image of you sinks behind my eyes. I feel you seat yourself in front of me. I say feel you, because I am still staring intently at the, once again, flashing cursor next to the last paragraph that I've just written.

"Hey you. " You say smiling crookedly at me from across the table, And I can't help but smile back. It's been a long day and it's so good to see your face. I notice that your hair has come undone slightly, and a few wisps have found their way to lay gracefully at the side of your neck. The rest of your hair is fastened securely up into a barrette, which serves to slick the rest of your golden locks back behind you, to flow smoothly down your back. I reach out to take your hand, as you continue talking about your day, and the stresses of being a marriage counselor in today's society. I nod my head as you pause to look at me curiously. But your gaze falters as you pick the menu up off the table, to examine it's contents.

I can't stop looking at you, and I remain motionless because I don't trust myself not to lean across the table and take your lips under the pressure of mine right there in the middle of the brightly lit restaurant. Your eyes flicker from the menu to grasp and hold my gaze, your fingers, idly play with the palm of my hand and I feel that slight pulling in the center of my stomach. I'm thinking about pulling you out of the booth and out of the door when Buffy comes over with her pad of paper, ready to take our order. Buffy's trying to be professional, but I can see the corner of her lips turning up into a smile.

"Are you two ready to order? Cause the other waitresses are going to start placing bets in about three minutes."

"Bets?" I ask, finally feeling the need to get involved in a conversation outside of my own head.

"Yeah...See, the other girls seem to think that there's going to be some hanky-panky going on over here within the next 5-7 minutes."

Buffy points to the cluster of women next to the cook's station. They abruptly pretend to be doing other things when they see the blonde waitress's finger indicating that they had something to do with whatever they perceived her to be over here talking to us about. I look over at you, but you seem to be amused. I can see the flecks of light shine in your eyes as you squint them to keep from laughing.

"We'll order now..."

You say this with a straight face, and I am still looking at Buffy with my mouth hanging open while thoughts of pools of money exchanging hands over greasy plates of hamburgers and nachos dance in my inner most profiler vision.

You order pancakes for both of us, as I am still at a loss for words. Extra syrup. Extra strawberries. You say you're in the mood for something sweet and we both blush at the implications of those words.

Buffy leaves us and your gaze once again finds me. I am still finding Buffy's comment hard to swallow, but you, always the more forgiving of the two of us, try to make light of the situation. I don't see the humor though, when you say "It could be worse, they could be betting on which one of us will choke first" You chuckle lightly at the joke but your laughter putters out as the seriousness of these women being put in charge of our meal settles in on you.

As we wait, You play silently with the discarded straw paper sitting to the left of your cup. Seeing the serious expression on your face, on impulse I pick the pencil up off the table, and begin to write. You, interested, watch me for the few moments it takes me to jot the words down onto the paper. We are both now aware of the waitresses paying us special attention as they go about their work so I slide it discreetly to you across the table. I watch as your fingers touch the edge of the paper. You pick it up gently as you read, I can see your blue eyes moving across the words before you. I bring my legs up and tuck them under my body. Sitting cross-legged on the soft-padded bench, I wait for your eyes to find mine.

The day hangs heavy
loose and grey
when you're away.
A crown of thorns
a shirt of hair
is what I wear.
No one knows
my lonely heart
when we're apart.

You smile warmly, recognition in your eyes. "Maya Angelou...Greyday..." you recall.

I know you remember, I can see it in your eyes. I remember that night too...

After you had gone, I'd stood there, watching the closed door for what felt like an eternity but, in reality might have only been a few moments, when there was a soft knock. You didn't wait for me the formality of saying 'come in" as you were already pushing the door open, like you owned me. You came to stand in front of me, your too big jeans held tightly in place by your cardigan, that had somehow migrated to wrap around your hips in the few minutes since you'd walked out of my vision. You explained that my mom had let you in because you had said that you'd left a book in my room. I swallowed, as you inched forward...I wanted to say something...anything, but your person stifled the flow of words that would have trickled from my lips in a long ramble...You were bold then, but shy at the same time, as you stood before me. We crossed the inches with our eyes first, but you were the one to take the first actual step to bring your lips sweetly against mine. I had said then, the only words that I could think of... against your lips I whispered the words of a poem I'd read and forgotten until that moment. The poem was Greyday By Maya Angelou.

"That was when I knew, you know.." you say, fingering the paper between your thumb and first finger.

"Knew what?" I ask, my lips forming a smile as I anticipate what you will say next.

"That Willow Rosenberg was and still is a hopeless romantic." You fold the paper tenderly into a neat square and tuck it into the satchel next to you in the booth.

The look on your face is enough to urge me forward. As I lean over the grey, formica table top, you, seeing my intention, meet me halfway. We kiss tenderly then, momentarily unaware of the people around us. Blissfully unaware, until the sound of stifled cheering erupts from some feet away as the waitresses pass a wad of money to Buffy, who has apparently won the bet.

"Happy anniversary Willow..." you say against my lips.

"Happy anniversary Baby..." I whisper back.