[FW]: Notes to Future Husband #2
This is what happens when I drink hot tea and read a bit of The Bridges of Madison County really late at night. Yep, prepare for something uncomfortably saccharine (at least for some of you). So here’s another letter to my future husband. On this Wednesday, I fantasize that our love will be like this.
I like talking to you. And I especially like that you like talking to me. I absolutely love that you answer all of my questions (sometimes seriously, oftentimes not) — even the rhetorical ones. This is why it was easy to fall in love with you. You said yourself you loved my, as I call it, “inquisitivity.” Oh, and my penchant for making up words.
“What’s your favorite thing about me?” Remember when I first asked you this? After a few months of dating, I recall, I was finally comfortable enough to ask you this, and expect a real answer.
It was close to Thanksgiving when we lay on the floor after watching both Kill Bills and Reservoir Dogs. Only real gangsters like us can watch three Tarantino films straight.
We were covered by your childhood blanket. The one with the Red Power Ranger . . . “Power Rangers, really?” I laughed. “What are you, 7 years-old now?” You threw the blanket off of us and grabbed me around the waist, ready to tickle me without mercy. “OK, OK! I’m sorry! You’re sophisticated! You’re sophisticated!” You smiled at your victory. Jerk.
We were silent. You then rolled over and reached for the softer blanket on the couch, and covered us with it. As you came down to my face-level, I noticed the incredibly soft-looking and worn athletic t-shirt you were wearing. I made a mental note to take it from you later.
And that was the moment. That was the incredibly warm gesture that moved me to ask it. With a bit of hesitation in my voice, I whispered, “So what’s your favorite thing about me?”
“Is there a limit?” You grinned, sort of crookedly. “Or may I start from your legs and work my way up?”
I giggled at you, and pulled myself closer to you to, uh, hear better. “You may pick two parts,” I said assuredly.
“In a particular order?” You asked with that goofy grin of yours.
“Would you just answer the question?! Geeze!” My embarrassment started to settle in.
You looked at me for a moment, and I was almost tempted to hide my face under the covers.
“Alright bossy woman, the freckle on the right side of your upper lip.” I reached to touch my freckle and smiled.
You added, “I love it. It’s perfect.”
You continued, “And of course your lips. I’m especially partial to the bottom one.” I, again, raised my hand to my mouth, and you caught my fingers and kissed them, and made Romantic Frenchman noises. I laughed, “Wow.”
I bit your favorite lip, darting my tongue out to dampen it. You watched, and said . . . “That! I know men have been conquered by such beauty.”
I did hide under the covers that time. Not out of embarrassment (well, maybe a little), but to initiate a play fight — one of our favorite pastimes, we’ve come to find.
After a pseudo wrestling match we lay legs entwined. My fingers at your side; your eyes on my freckle.
Sometimes, it’s the little things.