This place with it's old plantations

Micah had his hands full with a baby, explaining to it the finer points of art and what it means to the collective consciousness of middle america. He looked comfortable with that little thing bouncing on his knee or being held face forward in awe of the giant orange box. The light seemed to reflect off the painting and onto his face turning it a sickly pumkin color despite the ever present look of wonder. We all drank red wine out of plastic cups and ate our lasagna with the fine silver from the top drawer. We talked about beards, motorcycles, chicago, jobs, cooking, the future, italian food, life. BJ put his hand on my leg and I felt warm all over again. Apparently, in the last three houses Micah has lived in there has been an unused fireplace and twenty degree nights. Abby made jokes that had me in stitches. She has a dry delivery which is unexpected and delightful. At some point the baby accidentily slammed his head violently agianst the surface of the table. We all stopped, not wanting to encourage a scene. Perhaps we had absolutly no idea what to do in the presence of a crying child. It was awkward but the baby recovered nicely and all went back to talk of renting choppers for the weekend and making it to Savannah and back. After dinner the gentlemen retired to the living room as the ladies sat across from eachother talking shop and drinking the end of the chianti. We couldn't stay long, BJ and I were dog sitting and it was getting late. As the guests began to bid good night, I squeezed his hand and kissed his shoulder. It was time to go.