In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
Tag: romance
Ripples
A lovely evening to let my fingers play across the keys and imagine I hear the music. Perhaps faintly it is there, floating in the air on the other side of the pond. Do you hear it? I wish I could. Instead I sit here at the edge of the dock and wait for the first rays of moonlight. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing to hear the voice of another, especially when now all I can hear are the recriminations playing on repeat. Maybe in a few minutes she’ll walk down and join me, even if it is a bit chilly this night. And we’ll talk about the things that stir the surface waters and she’ll give me a smile or two. And then if we feel like it the moment will grow wistful and I’ll gaze across the waters and then she will join and do the same. The times when we both in tandem look across the lake are the times when our minds tend to be most in sync and so then she (or I) will bring up the subject that is a bit further down yet no less potentially painful because of the depth at which it sits. It’s far too long since we’ve had a frank heart to heart, and maybe that’s the reason for the distances that now lingers between us in moments such as this. Oh come down my love and join me at the end of the dock. Let’s sit under moonlight and stars and share our deepest heartaches and linger in the intimacies in being truly known by the other. I will open up myself to you – will you not do the same? Listen to the piano and the sound the fingers make sweetly dancing hither and yon. I hear the music now and yes the footsteps nearing.
Something Weird 