My hair is sopping wet because my body is too tired to even hold my hairdryer. Instead, my wet curls create streaks of dark grey against the light grey material of his baseball t-shirt which I keep grabbing the collar of and placing it to my nose because it smells like him. Sleeping in this shirt will make sleeping alone tonight easier. I sip some DuBoeuf Beaujolais and think back to sitting on the couch together with wine in hand, laughing at a cork that ended up in the bottle. I think about how so many things in life seem impossible, like ships in bottles, and try to remember that even that is possible. It is possible to experience bliss for days at a time, even in ways that may seem subtle and prosaic. Perhaps in the end those moments are when bliss can truly happen. Like pulling over on a road to look at the ocean in a small corner of a shoreline and taking photos of each other. Like running your fingers through his thick, dark hair as he sleeps, inhaling deeply as you listen to him breathe. Like eating leftover sag paneer and roti for breakfast together. Like standing out on a deck having an animated discussion about politics and NPR's responsibility to listeners as you wrongfully hold a menthol between your fingers and exhale at the sheer awe of his ideas. Like listening to Sinatra sing "My Funny Valentine" as you drive towards Atlantic City. Moments more private, moments in public, moments in a car stuck in traffic. Mostly moments of laughter. Moments you would like to bottle up and taste over and over again. In a recent moment, I was told that I am a hopeless romantic. I don't think that is true. Perhaps a hopeful romantic, but I do not see romance through rose colored glasses. I can see it clearly, realistically. Pragmatically enough to know that such blissful moments with a special man are not common, but unique and to be savored. And, above all else, to be discernibly thankful for.