Spring and Her Slow Sips
Someone recently said it was charming to find out how long my husband and I have been together, eight years and a half, because we act like we’ve only just met. I don’t know specifically which actions she was referring to. I snuck around behind him and crawled my arms over his shoulders, letting them hang limp the length of his chest. I stuffed my nose into the nape of his neck and breathed hotly, “Well, maybe it’s because we only did just meet.”
The truth is, the last decade houses ten-thousand of our meetings. Some sarcastic, some proper. Some indecent, some prude. Some calloused then polite, some senseless then shrewd. Our violent run-ins beg the question for those falling out of love too soon: have you not the farsightedness to trust the seasons and their moods? How in summer we’re dreaming, in autumn we’re doomed. How in winter we’re coddled and in springtime we’re wooed.
I remember liking whiskey once, the way it sawed through my organs going down. On occasion, a celebratory tequila neatly frozen. Of course my nightly Cabernet, but a single glass of it’ll do the trick. Lately, though, my leaves are leaning more toward the likes of a good, clean spirit. A light apéritif, preparing the palate for the friendship of a feast. The bright, botanical kind that listens to your secrets and lets the sun soften through gold-flecked curtains. Crisp and dance-y, sipped ‘til bed.
It was Daylight Saving Time’s Eve — a thief, sure — but only if you give her something to steal. We sat on the edge of our seats right at that table around eleven, and I swear I met him all over again until four in the morning as our newborn slept like a good girl through the night. Swapping stories, easy on the tongue, covering our bases just like when we were nineteen but not at all like we were nineteen. Sentences spilled and swirled like a balcony breeze. The same risky babble that acquaints two starving strangers, no real skin in the game, only this time they’re lovers and their whole world’s at stake.
Grape-stained lips nibbling on nuts and cheese and other familiar snacks. The fruits and herbs and whispers of alcohol agreed inside me, pure. Tastes like something I’ve had before, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. We had a delicate hold on the handle of time, both of us making eyes behind the veil of whatever vessel, a great big ball of ice jingling softly, toasting each other into the fold of a relentless evening. Going back for seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths, it’s a miracle I still have my wits about me.