as I’m writing this – and whispered something just to me, just to make me laugh.
What a generous thing that is, I realize, for a husband to try to make his wife
laugh. And you always picked the best moments. Do you remember when Insley
and her dancing-monkey husband made us come over to admire their baby, and
we did the obligatory visit to their strangely perfect, overflowered, overmuffined
house for brunch and baby-meeting and they were so self-righteous and
patronizing of our childless state, and meanwhile there was their hideous boy,
covered in streaks of slobber and stewed carrots and maybe some feces – naked
except for a frilly bib and a pair of knitted booties – and as I sipped my orange
juice, you leaned over and whispered, ‘That’s what I’ll be wearing later.’ And I
literally did a spit take. It was one of those moments where you saved me, you
made me laugh at just the right time. Just one olive, though. So let me say it
again: You are WITTY. Now kiss me!
I felt my soul deflate. Amy was using the treasure hunt
to steer us back to each other. And it was too late. While
she had been writing these clues, she’d had no idea of my
state of mind.
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