As you can tell from the photo above, yesterday’s ride to our anniversary dinner was filled with mutual love and romance.
It almost didn’t happen that way because we were running late and I couldn’t decide what to wear.
I showed Thom a midi skirt which hit right below the knee.
“It’s too long,” Thom said, “Like something a librarian would wear.”
I brought out a tighter black dress, which was still long-ish.
“Ooh that’s better, but can you make it shorter,” he said, “I want it to look like I bought you.”
“Hurry up,” he said, “we’re running late. We might have to take a cab.”
“No,” I said, “I can walk in these shoes.”
“Well, I’ll take a cab and you can take the subway. We can meet there.”
I gave him a look.
Thom wouldn’t tell me where the restaurant was until we were right in front.
“It’s like ‘bastard’ but without the ‘s’,” I said.
“It sure is,” Thom said, opening the door to Bâtard, “But I picked it because it sounds like B-tard.”
Which is what Thom used to call me.
We ordered a bottle of too-sweet French wine from a nervous, indecisive sommelier and killed yet another duck, among other creatures.
For romance’s sake, I lit two candles in our bedroom.
Thom closed the computer. Readied to take out his contacts. Our second anniversary was drawing to a close.
“Can I blow out one of the candles?” he yawned. “It smells like some kind of fire broke out in a whale fat processing center.”
“It’s our anniversary,” I said.
“Oh,” said Thom, realizing his mistake, “I meant a very romantic whale fat processing center.”