The three-little-words story

A month after I met my husband I flew out to spend Easter weekend with him in Colorado. I ended up calling my professors and declaring illness. I stayed a week, adding a day at a time.

The only one who seemed to care was a photographer assigned to an untimely story I hadn’t written yet.

Late one night we had put on Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, opened a bottle of wine and were slow dancing by candlelight. My boyfriend said something that I was 80 percent certain was “I’m in love with you.”

It was muffled by my hair.

Though we had said things like, “You’re the one;” “I’m done looking;” and “I’ve never felt like this before,” the word “love” was as yet unuttered.

I was in a fix. What if he had said something else, like, “I’ve an oven flue,” and I said, “I love you, too”?

I would sound dumb.

I didn’t want to sound dumb, so I said, “Huh?”

“I wanna live with you,” he repeated.

Ah! Good thing I asked.

“Yeah, no.”

Things need to be said in the right order.

(For anybody getting ready to disapprove, we did not live together before we were married in 1992.

. . . When I discovered I was pregnant.)

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3 Responses to “The three-little-words story”

  1. Gunky Says:

    you are such a prude.

    (who’s the photographer/what’s the unwritten story?)

  2. T. Says:

    Really? I forgot the woman’s name. We had decided to do a feature on a local aerobics instructor. She was a single mom with a fabulous body and great spirit.
    Mainly it was to show off how unbelievable it was that she’d given birth more than once and still looked so good.

  3. Mike Says:

    too funny

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