The drive was nonsexual foreplay.

An achingly familiar and absolutely wonderful build-up before ultimately reaching the final destination.

Giant road-side signs advertising CHEESE. An Amish family wearing black in their wagon. Red barns in mid-collapse. Highway exits and their convenience-store selections. Towns villages with names such as Whitehall and Pigeon Falls, named, presumably, for the town hall painted white and the birds found at the town’s water source. Or my favorite, the infamous village of Eleva, whose name was incepted when a farmer was unable to finish labeling the grain elevator before winter and newcomers assumed the half-finished job declared the town’s name.

Was these that had me sighing in surprise and happiness.

And then, a few hours later, when I finally arrived, I remembered that getting there is totally better than any foreplay.

 

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