Eventually, the lessons stopped. Tim retreated back to his office, leaving me to sit on the couch, my laptop a permanent fixture on my lap. Some days, I would wake up, go straight from the bed to the laptop, and then back to bed again at 5 a.m. I'd compare it to a hunger strike, or maybe a prison sentence. I was so damn fixated on that one elusive goal... to make Dreamweaver my bitch.

Every couple hours, Tim would come out, see if I needed anything, and answer my barrage of questions. Can you say patience? I'm sitting here unwashed, weak from hunger, practically crying from frustration, and he's willing to sit down with me and decipher my mumblings. He even kissed my forehead a few times. Were I him, I'd have been back in my office, quietly filling out the divorce papers.

I'm getting the hang of it now.

And I promise you, no one's happier than Tim.

end