Wednesday, May 23rd. Day 8395 of Marital This:
I am crying. (Quel surprise).
You find me inside our tiny cabin-for-two (Well, three. Sorry, Wahlter.) I sit hunched over the outline of my next book, clutching my head. Tapping my skin. You lift my tired frame, pulling it towards you. I flinch. My nerves flare hot as I graze the coarse hair of your chest. (You anti-manscaper, you!) As we sway, you croon into my ear, loud enough for me to hear over my buzzing ears, but soft enough to deflate my knees. I sink into you. My skin percolates with goose bumps, their cool texture oddly soothing.
“Stuck on You.” It’s an oldie, but a goody in our repertoire. The slightly ironic, but mostly sincere way you sing Lionel Richie’s 1984 near-chart topper, makes me cry harder. “I am cursed. I am so lucky. I hate my body. I love my husband. It hurts when you hold me. Please never let me go.” Your hand strokes my back. Soothing. Sincere. It moves all the way down to the top of my buttocks. Lovely. And then, riiiiight into my butt crack.
“Kevin!” I chortle, choke, spit up. You laugh. I push you away. We laugh. Wahlter wags.
And I go in again for another round.
And that pretty much sums up the last 23 years, McIntyre. A whole lot of pain, a lot more love, inside jokes that will never die, and every once in a while, a surprise that keeps me coming back for more.
Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. Stuck on you times infinity.