Sweet Nothing

Yesterday was my twenty-second wedding anniversary. My husband's, too. Who knew? Well, I did. The night we met. An evening in May, back in the Old Neighborhood. I was on the phone, the door knocked. I hung up, sashayed across the postage-stamp living room in my blue kimono, opened the door.

Twenty-four years and as many doors later, here we are.

It's true, I knew immediately And believe me, I wasn't one of those women who mooned around picturing Mr. Right. I pretty much knew who Mr. Wrong was...I'd been with a number of his second-cousins twice-removed...which was all the template I needed.

As far as Mr. Right was concerned, I had three basic criteria. The first, "human," though I wasn't a stickler. I'd already loved a dog as much as any human I'd ever known, and more than most. Thus I was also a stickler for loyalty, the second criterion.

Which brings me to the third.

The third overriding requirement in my vague definition of Mr. Right was chemistry. CHEMISTRY. I needed chemistry. Required chemistry. Desired chemistry above all else. If there wasn't chemistry, fuhgeddaboudit. Remember, my days of this particular chemical-addiction occurred pre-AIDS, a whole different ballpark. Biggest problem being, there can sometimes be chemistry, and not much else. Which got me into a few tight spots over the years. So to speak.

In certain fundamental ways we're all of us hard-wired. We are who we are when it comes to sex. My philosophy was, and I guess, still is, FFTL...Fuck First, Talk Later. If talking were required. If not, fine. I had girlfriends for that, I had gayfriends. I had a cat for godsakes.

My husband was always amazed at my fucking philosophy. Or so he claimed. Not that he complained. I certainly wasn't complaining. I just wasn't into foreplay. Chemistry was all the foreplay I needed. In this sense...correct me if I'm politically/socially/feministically wrong...I was like a guy. Is that a bad thing?

So there we were, a couple of guys, fucking. Having the time of our lives, riding high, breaking a few records. If record-breaking were required.

And then, gradually, I became aware of something else happening. In the midst of all this fucking, we were also...talking. Now there's a unique concept. Instead of foreplay, we had afterplay. I was dumbfounded. Figuratively speaking. In actuality, I'd become a motormouth. I couldn't shut up. I yammered on and on like a magpie, a budgerigar, a happy idiot. My FFTL had come full circle. I couldn't tell where the fucking left off and the talking began. Everything looped over on itself again and again in an endless cycle of bliss.

Then we got married. Twenty-two doors ago. And here we are.

So yesterday morning I wean myself from bed and lurch down to the kitchen in an endless cycle of achilles tendonitis, and it's my anniversary, it's our anniversary, and Mr. Right has left me a note on the counter beside Mister Coffee, and he's still so thoughtful and loving after all these years, Mr. Right that is, and I pour myself a cup and feel around for my glasses and read,

"Went to Emergency last night 2 a.m., didn't want to wake you, have abdominal hematoma, something's wrong with garage door."

This is when I notice the two bottles of meds sitting on the table beside a xeroxed CAT scan, which looks uncannily like a dog. "Didn't want to wake you..." What a thoughtful and loving man, you might be thinking. It's more likely he didn't want to hear me swear a bluestreak in the middle of the night, which might alert the neighbors.

I glance through the window and notice the garage door is open. The rusted rearends of a pair of ravaged vehicles glint pinkly in the sunrise. How many cars have we had in our marriage? Five? Six? We're due for another, maybe two. Maybe a new door for the garage, too. I wonder how early the liquor store opens. I can swing by after I've dropped the kid at school, put something in the fridge for later. Because there's nothing like a little sweet champagne to help celebrate these milestones in life.