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Yard Sale

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One day, ten years ago, I had a yard sale. Now, ten years later, I am married to the love of my life and my home is currently filled with the laughter and joyous blood-curdling screams of kids under the age of five having fun. I look over and see my husband smiling softly in the sunlight. His big, brown eyes are pools of amber and maple that reveal flecks of gold when he moves. I know those eyes. Oh, how I know those eyes. How could you possibly forget the moment your life changed and the person who started it all?

Yes, ten years ago, I had a yard sale, and Marco Bodt walked away with some of my posters and my still-beating heart. For a couple weeks all I had of him was my blush and the five dollars he’d fished from his comfortably worn wallet and placed in my hand. I felt where his thumb had brushed my palm for days. His hands still leave mine tingling.

All I have to say to that cranky twenty-something of ten years ago was:
Jean Kierschtien, get his number. You are gayyyyy.
You are gay and will adopt three children with the man who lifted your ancient-ass musician posters for $5. You will own a house with him. You will walk down the aisle with him, hand in hand.

You will love every single second of it, you grumpy shit-stain.