He said he was tired of underwhelming me. I told him, don’t be silly – it is what it is, we are what we are. So we spent six years laughing over our romance, wishing a little and dreaming a lot, but holding tight onto friendship – because, after all, there is nobody else we’d rather hang out with.
And then he booked the whole of my April, in spite of business and wedding season and two kids and our crazy life, and he tried to make me guess his reasons. I guessed Colorado and California, Prince Edward Island, Hawaii, the Caribbean. No, no, no, he said to most of it, and yes on some things, until I was thoroughly mystified by his criss-crossing clues. Wait for your birthday, he said, so I shut up and waited – mostly.
We went to Savannah last weekend – where the cop said St. Patrick’s Day is bigger than it is in New York, and once you get off-duty, it’s off the ‘effin handle – and we shot ourselves a wedding that ended at three. We drove around town, fell a little in love with the whimsical charm of the place, found coffee and a green fountain and a festival where violins sang out songs that made my toes ache to move.
And I asked him one more time where are we going?, and he said, let’s go back to the Irish festival, and I said I don’t mind driving; I like being with you, and he said, Lets. Go. Back. To. The. Irish. Festival.
I think I said wow. Wooowwow. And then I called my mother: My husband is taking me to Ireland in April.