Hallmark holiday
He tries. He really does, and I give him credit for it.
There we were: bobbing gently along the Venetian canals in (what else?) a gondola built for two. I leaned back in his arms and we watched the city drift by as if in a dream.
Occasionally, the gondoliers would, on unseen cue, begin to warble some gondolier-approved, gently worn tune like "Santa Lucia," and the notes would echo down a lonely passage and reverberate under a bridge.
Back on terra firma, we wound our way through the streets, passing throngs of revelers in full costume for Carnevale. Confetti littered every alley. We held hands as we walked from island to island, and we blushed and giggled when a group of masked musicians pointed to us and crowed, "Amore!"
That evening, we sank into red velvet seats in a faded old opera house and laughed with the crowd as Elvis Costello tried his hand at an Italian introduction. After a moment's struggle, he picked back up in English (to our relief) and went on to play a wonderful set of unforgettable music.
It could have been the perfect Valentine's Day, one that would set the bar impossibly high for the rest of our lives.
But he forgot to buy me a card. Oh, well. Better luck next time, big guy.
Nine years pass. He packs Carter's lunch, kisses me good-bye and heads to the office before the sun rises. In the middle of a hectic day in a hectic week, he blocks out an hour to attend Carter's classroom party. En route, he calls to check on the patients (S: ear infection; K: sinus) and tell me he loves me.
After the party ends and he unfolds himself from a seriously uncomfortable miniature chair, he walks Carter out of school and to my car so I don't have to unload the sickies. Kisses all around, then back to work for a few more hours. He stops by Central Market to grab some flowers and ingredients for our favorite meal, farfalle carbonara.
He cooks, he serves, he cleans; he referees, he bathes, he showers his adoring fans with kisses and hugs. Finally, the house is quiet. "Happy Valentine's Day," he says, wrapping his arms around me. And then, with a hang-dog look, he adds, "I'm really sorry, sweetie. I forgot to pick up a card."
Well, I suppose, no one's perfect.
Happy Valentine's Day, Trey. I love you.
There we were: bobbing gently along the Venetian canals in (what else?) a gondola built for two. I leaned back in his arms and we watched the city drift by as if in a dream.
Occasionally, the gondoliers would, on unseen cue, begin to warble some gondolier-approved, gently worn tune like "Santa Lucia," and the notes would echo down a lonely passage and reverberate under a bridge.
Back on terra firma, we wound our way through the streets, passing throngs of revelers in full costume for Carnevale. Confetti littered every alley. We held hands as we walked from island to island, and we blushed and giggled when a group of masked musicians pointed to us and crowed, "Amore!"
That evening, we sank into red velvet seats in a faded old opera house and laughed with the crowd as Elvis Costello tried his hand at an Italian introduction. After a moment's struggle, he picked back up in English (to our relief) and went on to play a wonderful set of unforgettable music.
It could have been the perfect Valentine's Day, one that would set the bar impossibly high for the rest of our lives.
But he forgot to buy me a card. Oh, well. Better luck next time, big guy.
Nine years pass. He packs Carter's lunch, kisses me good-bye and heads to the office before the sun rises. In the middle of a hectic day in a hectic week, he blocks out an hour to attend Carter's classroom party. En route, he calls to check on the patients (S: ear infection; K: sinus) and tell me he loves me.
After the party ends and he unfolds himself from a seriously uncomfortable miniature chair, he walks Carter out of school and to my car so I don't have to unload the sickies. Kisses all around, then back to work for a few more hours. He stops by Central Market to grab some flowers and ingredients for our favorite meal, farfalle carbonara.
He cooks, he serves, he cleans; he referees, he bathes, he showers his adoring fans with kisses and hugs. Finally, the house is quiet. "Happy Valentine's Day," he says, wrapping his arms around me. And then, with a hang-dog look, he adds, "I'm really sorry, sweetie. I forgot to pick up a card."
Well, I suppose, no one's perfect.
Happy Valentine's Day, Trey. I love you.
posted by mrsf5 at 9:10 PM
4 Comments:
So, so sweet. Okay, NOW Trey can comment on your blog. :)
*chills*
I just love you guys.
I want to be you when I grow up.
Just fyi.
Jen
You have yourself a serious catch. (But then again, so does he!) What a lovely post.
No, no, no, no, no. You all have missed the point, which is what I get for not rewriting this post 20 times (yes, Tracey, you guessed correctly) until I got the tone exactly right.
The point is that HE DIDN'T GET ME A CARD. And is, therefore, an insensitive clod.
Aw, who am I kidding? Truth? He's a great guy. And he puts up with my crap on a suprisingly consistent basis, which is saying a LOT.
And he doesn't even have to write a comment if he'll just make good on his promise to post a picture of us, young and bright-eyed and foolish, in Italia. Smooch!
Post a Comment
<< Home