Notes to Future Husband – #6

by cynthiarendon

Haven’t done one of these in a while. And since I’ve had trouble writing lately, it’s been nice to fantasize about that one man who will consistently take me out of that writer’s frustration funk (or at least really try ;)). It might be odd for some of you to read these sort of letters that are actually, yes, very personal and probably a bit too sentimental, but the small idea that some of the best days of my life haven’t happened yet, and that these circumstances may occur one day — well that’s why I do it. So shut up.

Future Husband,

I understand that I have a lot of those days. You know, the days that I spend in front of the harsh, bluish glow of my laptop — just frustrated. I move from the couch to the kitchen to our bed to the hammock outside, to just break the monotony of my lack of, I don’t know, inspiration. I even take “breaks” — to the store, the gym, yoga class, or just take long drives. I act like some sort of tortured artist and I’m not sure why. All it takes is some focus and perseverance, which I definitely have (sometimes), but, yep, it’s one of those days again.

You come home from school [for some reason, I’ve always pictured my future husband as a teacher of some sort, so I’ll just go with that . . .] and there I am: in the same position, in the same location. In a joking, light tone, you ask, “Have you moved at all?” I’m definitely not in the mood, so I give you the look. You know the one — the one where my lips straighten and I give you the ceiling eyes. You’ve dealt with it so much, that you know what to do. No kiss hello, just a retreat to the kitchen (where you belong . . . just kidding ;)) for a snack. I crank the music (for inspiration, of course, or to break the routine), which ranges from Stevie Nicks to A Tribe Called Quest to Jackson 5 to, yup, even N Sync (by the way, thank you for not judging me despite all those 90s pop phases I have . . .). You hear my loud and angry taps of the keyboard, you hear my very audible sighs and groans, and then you hear some rustling in the kitchen. I’ve finally gotten up to break my work-related fast.

You ask, “Are you hungry?” I say “Mhm”, in the most defeated tone. And then you show me why I’m just so blessed to have married you. As nighttime approaches and settles in and the glow of my computer gets brighter and brighter, you bring me one cup of coffee after the other (and then cut me off and bring me decaffeinated tea). With each cup comes a kiss on the forehead, as well. And just like each sip of the hot liquid gives my body warmth, your gestures and actions warm my heart and soul — to the point where everything’s just warm, content, and best of all, clear. To the point where it becomes simple to write the best that I can.

OK, you can give me a real kiss hello now.