Bindo and Bacall

You ask what romance means to me, and the answer comes easily enough if I close my eyes and remove the artifacts of personal experience. I am a throwback to a bygone era, a Bacall kind of girl, who responds to penetrating glances, crooked smiles and confidential winks. I would tear open a long box tied with a ribbon to find a dozen perfect, white lillies wrapped in tissue paper. I would dine with you in a continental restaurant late at night, at a corner table, dimly lit, so close to you our knees touched beneath the tablecloth and the feel of your fabric against my bare skin, tantalizing, caused my heart to beat faster than even the wine could mitigate.

I would walk with you in the warm rain; feed you chocolates, the ones you had given to me, while watching old re-runs of The Avengers; waltz across a dance floor held tightly in your arms; and hold my breath in anticipation as you whisked me away for the weekend to I knew not where. You would ask me to marry you and slip a ring on my finger before my eyes returned to size, before I could catch my breath, before I could find my voice, Yes!, and believe it all to be real.

When I rely instead on memory, or the teasing, fleeting promise of it, what I see is you gazing at me with one raised eyebrow. I feel your hands cradling my face as you lean in to kiss me so slowly, so softly, our breath is one. You play a song for me on the guitar, and once in awhile, you even write one for me. On a regular basis, you speak of me in poems that you share with the world. Your fingers graze mine as we curl up on the couch to watch a movie, and my breath comes faster as I anticipate what is to come, later. At two in the morning, when neither of us can sleep, we whisper and laugh like two carefree teenagers, limbs sprawling, intertwined, beneath soft, warm cotton. You bring me coffee in bed; you envelope and guard my dreams, secrets, and silly fantasies; you cook me eggs benedict. You confide in me, champion me, trust me, and believe in me. You would take me home to Mother.

My son adores you. He seeks you out, his face lights up when you smile at him, and he glories in your approval. My son, who is not trusting of grown men, has allowed himself to be himself with you, without fear of repercussion, disaster, or abandonment.

My dog deems you alpha.

You, my love, are what romance means to me.

One Response to “Bindo and Bacall”

  1. Here’s lookin at you kid.
    (OK..wrong movie, but I like it anyway)

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