Six months in.
Totally different world for me and Dian.
We held hands again. And not just hold hands, but HOLD HANDS.
I’m not even sure how to describe what I mean.
It’s like her hands are more alive in my hands. With their own heartbeat. With their own desire.
I know, a little mushy for a construction guy… but that’s what it feels like.
A lot of those spoken desires have been coming to bear since I began reading more and writing a little.
Some of those things I share with Dian.
Most make her smile.
Some make her cry.
Others have had her pulling at my polo top, working it over my head, and us going at it in the kitchen once more.
All of a sudden, it’s like we’re newlyweds again and every room is fair game.
When we were newlyweds there were a lot fewer rooms.
There are a lot of rooms in our house.
It makes for an eventful weekend.
It makes for a very sore, and very tender, Monday and Tuesday.
We’ve both groaned about the recovery period–wondering if there was a salve on the market for two old fuckers.
We settled for a long soak together on Monday nights after my workout. A rub down for her on the massage table on Tuesday nights.
By Wednesday, we were looking forward to Fridays again. That’s why Friday is my new favorite F-word.
This is what happened last Friday.
I told my employees at noon I was out for the day. Then the next stop was the florist closest to Dian’s bank.
I bought a bouquet of a bunch of flowers that there is no way in hell I could tell you now what they were, but when I saw them they were beautiful and that reminded me of Dian.
The next stop was Dian’s bank.
I strolled right in, alongside lunchtime customers scrambling to get their Friday afternoon checks cashed.
Dian’s office was to the right. She wasn’t behind her desk or anywhere to be seen when I came in, so I took the seat across from hers.
“Buck, what the hell?” She whispered as she finally arrived.
“Ma’am, such beauty as yours deserves tribute.”
“I know, I haven’t bought flowers for you for years.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll go out with me after you get off work.”
“Cat got your tongue?”
“I’ll be by here sixish. Be ready for a good time.”
Dian giggled. “All righty.”
Depositing her flowers on her desk, I stood, took one step over to Dian, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “See you sixish.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Now I hadn’t bought Dian flowers in years. Or candy. Or jewelry. Or clothing.
I would buy her flowers.
She considered them extravagant and unnecessary.
I would buy her candy.
She would say that it would ruin her waistline.
I would buy her jewelry.
She would never wear it. When pressed on the subject, a poor excuse would be offered.
I would buy her clothing.
She would never wear those either. The wrong fit. The wrong size. The wrong color.
So guess what? Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. I quit buying her shit.
A gift card was what she got on special occasions. Anniversary. Birthday. Christmas. Yeah, I know, how romantic, right?
I faced the facts. Dian was not won over by gifts. At all. And apparently, I sucked at gift selection.
So why the hell bother?
Today, it was simply a lark, a whim. I went by the florist and did the deed.
Dian was honestly flabbergasted to see me in her office with flowers.
So, to tally it all up at this point, we were lovers again. I was writing sappy little nothings that were touching her heart. I was buying her flowers.
Most importantly, the icy bitch that was my wife, was starting to thaw…