I boot up my laptop and get to work.
The code flows easily.
Because I know what I want to say.And I know how to say it in a language only Sage will understand.
Every line is deliberate, every function a truth I should have said weeks ago.
Time passes.
Buttercup eventually curls up under the desk, occasionally bleating commentary.
The rain continues its Seattle symphony against the windows.
"This might not work," I tell the goat around 2 AM."She might hate it.Might think it's an invasion of privacy."
Buttercup snores in response.
"Very helpful."
I keep coding, building something that's part apology, part declaration, part promise.
It's the most inefficient code I've ever written because it's not meant to be efficient.
It's meant to be true.
My phone buzzes.Daniella.
She just left the hospital.ETA 30 minutes.
Thirty minutes to finish this.To set up everything.
To hope I haven't miscalculated.
"Time to go," I tell Buttercup, saving my work and preparing the final display.
She stretches, yawns, and promptly tries to eat my laptop cord.
"No.Bad goat.That's worth more than your yoga instructor's rent."
She looks offended but releases the cord.
I do final checks, make sure everything will trigger when she opens her laptop, then gather my things.
Almost dawn now, that gray Seattle pre-light that makes everything feel possible.
"Come on," I tell Buttercup."Let's go wait where she'll find us."
We head to the lobby, and I settle into the same chair where I first waited for her that midnight weeks ago.Buttercup curls up at my feet, occasionally sighing like the drama queen she is.
Now we wait.
And try not to think about how this could go very, very wrong.
"She'll forgive us," I tell Buttercup."She has to."
Buttercup's snore suggests she's reserving judgment.
Fair enough.
