The following was scribbled as part of the Random Complexity Writing Challenge, over at In Search of Giants. Word Count: 335.
We met in college. We shared the same major. But that was where the similarities ended.
Moker admired Dirty Harry. I had a passion for Barbra Streisand. I swam laps. He thought Speedos belonged only on effeminate young men on the beach at St.-Tropez.
The man was a golfer, for goodness sake! He wore Polos even off the golf course. The only folks I’d ever seen in Polos—especially those in shades of chartreuse and tangerine—were effeminate young men in Greenwich Village, during a college summer in NYC.
My Best Bud Debbie said we were “meant for each other.” That she could tell we were “soulmates.” But there the clichés ended. Because it wasn’t meant to be.
But the more I saw of him, the more we became comfortable in our ways. The Dirty Harry fan took me to more than one Chick Flick. And I even once rose before the sun did and, discarding my usual uniform of jeans and a T, donned khaki and a Polo to attend a PGA Golf Tournament with him.
We were there 12 hours, and I have to say that I enjoyed myself—because he was there.
He’s Norwegian, from the Upper Midwest. I’m a Southern Gal. He’s parsimonious in his prose, sometimes going hours without a single word to anyone. I can talk a blue streak, with anybody, anytime.
Debbie was right, of course. As the ’80s turned into the ’90s, and the New Century dawned, we watched the seasons of married life fly by. Two kids and years beyond college, we’re still together.
And no, this isn’t a post commemorating our anniversary. That comes up in the Spring. Today, I’m honoring a note he left on the kitchen table. A memo, of sorts, just a quick FYI, scribbled in a Husband’s Scrawl, which greeted me when I returned from doing laps yesterday morning.
“Hello...I’m cooking dinner tonight.”
That’s all he had to say to win my heart yet again. He had me. After “hello.”
We met in college. We shared the same major. But that was where the similarities ended.
Moker admired Dirty Harry. I had a passion for Barbra Streisand. I swam laps. He thought Speedos belonged only on effeminate young men on the beach at St.-Tropez.
The man was a golfer, for goodness sake! He wore Polos even off the golf course. The only folks I’d ever seen in Polos—especially those in shades of chartreuse and tangerine—were effeminate young men in Greenwich Village, during a college summer in NYC.
My Best Bud Debbie said we were “meant for each other.” That she could tell we were “soulmates.” But there the clichés ended. Because it wasn’t meant to be.
But the more I saw of him, the more we became comfortable in our ways. The Dirty Harry fan took me to more than one Chick Flick. And I even once rose before the sun did and, discarding my usual uniform of jeans and a T, donned khaki and a Polo to attend a PGA Golf Tournament with him.
We were there 12 hours, and I have to say that I enjoyed myself—because he was there.
He’s Norwegian, from the Upper Midwest. I’m a Southern Gal. He’s parsimonious in his prose, sometimes going hours without a single word to anyone. I can talk a blue streak, with anybody, anytime.
Debbie was right, of course. As the ’80s turned into the ’90s, and the New Century dawned, we watched the seasons of married life fly by. Two kids and years beyond college, we’re still together.
And no, this isn’t a post commemorating our anniversary. That comes up in the Spring. Today, I’m honoring a note he left on the kitchen table. A memo, of sorts, just a quick FYI, scribbled in a Husband’s Scrawl, which greeted me when I returned from doing laps yesterday morning.
“Hello...I’m cooking dinner tonight.”
That’s all he had to say to win my heart yet again. He had me. After “hello.”
