Sunday, October 18, 2009

date night.

Friday evening I was getting dressed to go out with my sweetheart. We'd bout tickets to a jazz concert at the symphony center and were going to have a fine dinner first. I'd been feeling physically out of sorts for days, had come home from work cold and tired, and the idea of getting gussied up didn't make me feel great, so he and I agreed to dress down.

He came into the bedroom where I was putting on finishing touches. My locks are in that fantastic albeit frustrating stage where they make a great sized but irregular bun, and in a fit of going for the shape of the bun, I tied them all up in a black scarf at the nape of my neck. He came in and a torrent of words fell out of me, about how I wasn't sure that this was the right shirt to wear and wearing it meant I had to wear a sweater and I didn't want to wear a sweater because the shirt was so cute but if I didn't I knew I'd be cold and that my hair wasn't cooperating and I couldn't really see it despite holding a hand mirror in front of the bathroom mirror and what do you think how does it look?

He looked at me, hands in his pockets, eyes smiling behind his spectacles, and said, "I think I'm glad I'm marrying you."

It's nice to have a man in my life who, completely spontaneously, can speak his heart, and make all of my tiny irritations not matter as much anymore.