A Cup of Comfort for Couples (12 page)

At home after our weekend away, we agreed it was the best anniversary trip we'd ever taken.

But over the next several weeks, as the perfect parts of our getaway started blending into one big happy memory, there was one piece that wouldn't quite mix in. I couldn't help but worry it, turning it over and over in my mind and catching my breath at its sharp edges.

On the last morning, while waiting for the barista at the hotel's coffee shop to steam up our orange-chocolately espresso drinks, Greg picked out a small cookie from a bowl on the counter and put it in his mouth. Just as he was curling up his nose at the taste, a quietly smug voice behind us said, “You just ate a dog biscuit.”

We turned then to see a cute, twenty-something girl wearing Northwest-casual city chic, impossibly short hair, and what looked to me like a smooth-skinned face of disdain. We weren't hip enough to know that this café always put out biscuits for its canine clientele (even if they were shaped — humanly, I thought — like hearts); Greg wasn't cool enough to keep his hands and mouth to himself.

Back at our table, I fumed. “They could at least have a sign,” I hissed, embarrassed for Greg — and for myself.

I felt betrayed — by my old neighborhood and its new residents, by my used-to-belong younger self and the older woman I suddenly seemed to be turning into. But Greg didn't care and tried to tease me out of it. He reminded me of how he'd jumped out of a rented car on our honeymoon in Spain to pop an uncured olive into his mouth, only to be knocked to his knees by its brininess. He reminded me of how we'd laughed later, over tapas and beer, and made up newspaper headlines and obituaries: “No looking back: Man, just married, turns into pillar of salt.”

I knew I was being silly about the dog biscuit, and I laughed with him, at us. But at home now, I can't quite let it go. I think about all of the girls I used to be: the mysterious one who dressed in black; the manic one who rocketed from job to job and boyfriend to boyfriend, and in between times spent solitary weeks in her apartment, trying to write; the ambivalent one who didn't know if she wanted to marry or live alone, to take the well-paying technical-writing jobs or the poorly paying artsy ones; the girl who was that disdainful young woman in the coffee shop.

The girl I was would never unthinkingly pop something into her mouth, and she certainly wouldn't race to a tree, in any country, as if expecting to taste from The Tree of Life. That girl didn't know that she wouldn't be young forever, that she would be replaced by endless rounds of younger, seemingly cooler girls, all of whom, sooner or later, would also have to choose — between a rooted, microscopic love that could hold her and the telescopic thrill of everything still hovering on the horizon.

I think about how my husband picked me all those years ago, popping me into his heart before he knew what he was getting. How even now that he knows — my bitter parts, my sharp points — he's never once asked for relief, never once shown any regret.

Snuggled into Greg's heart like the pit of an olive, I've accompanied him places I wouldn't go on my own. Sometimes these journeys drain me, as if I've survived too long on dry, tasteless biscuits. But together we've found that even the most unpalatable parts of our personalities, when shared over cup after cup of the creamed coffee we both love, sustain and ultimately strengthen us.

—
Lorri McDole

This story was first published in
The Rambler
, October 2007.

Dancing with My Husband

T
hey didn't show this part on
Dancing with the
Stars
, I thought, my right foot colliding with my husband's left shin as we attempted to waltz across the dance floor. We tried again, a mixture of love and hysteria in our eyes as I fought hard not to lead and he fought hard not to let me. He had donned the dance shoes he'd worn at our wedding a decade ago, while my feet were dressed in my best Jazzercise sneakers, no high heels to trip me up on this first night of my fantasy-come-true ballroom dance class.

“One, two, three. One, two, three . . .” I counted, loud enough for the two of us as we hurried to catch up to the other two stumbling couples.

There were no cheering crowds to spur us on, no celebrity judges, only fluorescent lights and a sweaty heaviness in the air left over from the hip-hop teens who had occupied the space before us. Kayla, our instructor, clapped her hands and shouted the count from the sideline, looking too young and skinny for us to be friends. No, there'd been no scrolling feed on TV to warn “don't try this at home” or “don't bribe the one you love with tacos and sex every night (not necessarily in that order) for a Friday night dance class,” because, hey, now that we're married, we're not doing anything after
Jeopardy
, anyway.

My husband and I finally managed a safe step, two, three, and my heart swelled as Frank Sinatra sang and we glided a few feet across the hardwood floor. I engaged the fantasy, imagining myself in a skin-tight backless dress, the music loud and strong, stirring that falling-in-love feeling when joy courses through you like a low-grade fever. No matter that the last time my husband and I had danced together was at our wedding long ago. No matter that those TV dancers didn't have to race home from work to grab the spouse who'd just arrived from his own nine-to-fiver and dash down to the dance “institute,” a converted suite of rooms with mirrors for walls in the token industrial section of suburbia. No matter any of that, because we were here, really here, and for a few more cautious steps I was living the dream. I smiled at my husband, he smiled back, and then, happy and distracted, we promptly ran into each other again.

“Okay, kids,” Kayla called. “Gather 'round, please, so I can show you the next move.”

She grabbed my husband's hand and pulled him into the middle of our small circle. I watched, helpless, as she bent his arms into position like a life-sized Gumby doll and then locked her frame into his.

“Now, pay attention,” she said. “This is what it should look like.”

Kayla nodded a silent count to my spouse, then boldly stepped back, pulling my better half with her. I braced, waiting for the crash.

“You're so lucky,” said the woman next to me. “My husband wouldn't be caught dead here.”

“There was bribery involved.” What, I would not say.

She shook her head. “Nothing would get Barry down here. He likes to bowl, but that's about it.”

By now Kayla and my man had danced several yards without mishap. If there was any hesitation on his part, it was quickly quelled by Ms. Skinny Tush.

“He's pretty good, actually,” my new friend said. “I'm Harriett, by the way.”

“I'm Barbara, and that's Michael,” I said, turning to offer her a quick smile, but was surprised to see her watching my guy with open admiration.

Curious, I followed her gaze and that's when it hap-pened: through Harriett's eyes, I saw my husband in a way I hadn't since when we were first dating and every inch of him was fascinating to me and all I desired. Before our dance class, he'd thrown on a white shirt and black slacks, and now I stood transfixed by the contrast of his tan hands against the crisp white cuffs — it was so Antonio Banderasish. Had he been wearing that all evening?

The music stopped, and Kayla brought him over. “He's all yours!” she said, giving me his hand. I took it.

“Teacher's pet,” I teased.

Michael laughed and pulled me close. “The sacrifices I make.”

“And I appreciate it.” I tilted my head up like Meg Ryan from
When Harry Met
Sally
— when she had good hair.

We started practicing again, our moves to Frank's tunes a little smoother now after Kayla's private lesson. I told him about Harriett. “But she doesn't know you're only here for the promise of food and canoodling.”

He looked indignant. “Not true.”

“What do you mean?” I felt his guiding right hand, warm and familiar, burrow its way to my bare back, T-shirt be damned.

“I'm here,” he said, bending slightly to touch his nose to mine, “because you wanted me to be.”

Shocked, I pulled away. “Really?”

Michael reached out, and in a roguish, Harlequin romance-type move brought me up against him and whispered in my ear, “Really.”

But he already had me at “you wanted me to be.” In that Disney moment, I saw all the little things he does: the spiders he's slain, the schmaltzy love notes left where I'll find them (on my pillow, in my purse, taped on the package of the freeze-dried tortellini I planned to resuscitate for dinner), his gentleman's arm on stairs that seem steeper after age forty. But most of all, letting me drag him to a ballroom dance class for the next six Friday nights when he could be home watching
Dirty Jobs
on DIRECTV. I wanted him. I wanted him now.

“Ready?” he asked, setting us into start-waltz position again.

I nodded. “You can lead.”

We danced some more, Sinatra wound down, and Michael spun me around into a death-defying dip that made me cry out with laughter. After class, I threaded my arm through his.

“So what do you say next week I ditch the sneaks for a pair of sexy black pumps?”

He grinned. “And nothing else?”

Men. “Uh — no,” I replied, then added, “But later tonight . . . ”

—
Barbara Neal Varma

Popcorn Proposal

T
he room was dimly lit with candlelight and the glow from the fireplace. The crackling sounds of the wood burning coupled with the soft strains of acoustic Spanish guitar coming from the stereo made the perfect duet, setting the mood. On the floor was a red-and-white-checkered blanket with a picnic basket next to it. The crystal champagne glasses on the fireplace hearth were my clue champagne was lurking somewhere near that basket.

I turned to look at Ryan, who simply smiled at me while he lifted the lid to the basket. Inside, I saw cheese, fruit, chocolate, and other treats.

That was the scene that greeted me when I walked in the door from running an errand — an errand I suddenly realized he had contrived to get me out of the house. I had been expecting the noise and confusion that usually greeted me when I walked in the door. Instead of the barking dog, the attacking cat, and the children screaming about who did what to whom and vying for my attention, the house was quiet, devoid of kids and pets, calm and clean. My living room was never clean.

Ryan's beckoning eyes beseeched me to come and sit by him as he patted the spot on the blanket next to him. I obeyed — greedily, happily — and sank into his arms beside him on the floor. He poured two glasses of champagne, one of which I sipped eagerly. Accustomed to fruit punch and milk, I savored this rare treat.

We toasted, sipped some more champagne, and then he took my glass. Like in the movies, he moved closer to me, put his arms around me, and gently lowered me onto the floor, wrapped up in his embrace.

Two hours later, I woke up, cozy and comfortable, still lying on the floor, with Ryan hovering over me, a smirk on his face, watching me sleep.

“You snore,” he said, laughter tinting the words and his eyes crinkling at the sides. I love when his eyes smile.

I was mortified. I could not believe that after he'd gone to so much trouble — finding a way to get rid of the kids, planning the entire evening to picture perfection — I had fallen asleep on him!

I suppose that was the moment when I realized,
This guy must really love me.

And so he does.

That night my children from a previous relationship, whom Ryan had come to love and care for, had gone, on his dime, to a double feature at the drive-in. Inside the picnic basket was a small velvet box, sapphire blue, and inside that box was a gorgeous triad-diamond engagement ring. It was stunning, absolutely perfect.

Once I woke fully, Ryan bent to his knee, took the box, and properly proposed. At that precise moment, before I gave him an answer, my children came bursting through the door, all eager to tell me about the movie and their exciting evening out. The dog, who had been securely relegated to the bedroom that evening, heard them and began barking her head off. My son accidentally kicked over the champagne flute that was on the floor. We rushed to pick things up and get them out of the line of fire.