My Summer Love,
Remember the white linen soirée? Can you believe it was a summer ago that we discovered one another?
I don’t use the word lightly–discovery. Treasure finds are rare anymore, seems. This open society in which we live, this highly social society of which we’re a part leaves little for serendipity, seems.
Perhaps we could’ve met in a chat. Or on a dating match. I might’ve invited you to the Coffee Klatch for a frappe-over-conversation. Certainly nothing wrong with that.
But there you were, draped in silken ivory flow, the white blossom nestled in your hair, part island girl, part meadow girl, all enchanting woman whom a romance writer would be inspired to create a story around.
And then you spilled your drink on me accidentally. You apologized so earnestly, forgiveness was never a question on my part. Besides, the cranberry hue of your pomtini coordinated well on my white linen shirt, no?
The smile I brokered upon your face spoke to me, whispered to me something I couldn’t quite let go. I didn’t intend to monopolize your time there, but it seemed we talked until a full moon appeared, urging us to continue.
Two more martinis, slow and meticulous our sips, and the mutual laughter came with ease. You found my life interesting; I found yours intriguing, We both solicited a little more about the other–discovery in full bloom. Under full moon.
Remember when I asked about love as imagery? If your ideal love were a house, what would it be and where would it exist? You replied, “a quaint country cottage by the lake . . . green, low-carbon, solar, eco-sustaining, surrounded by fruit trees and a vegetable garden.”
Impressed I was.
“If your ideal love were a vehicle, what?”
You didn’t hesitate, “Ford Fusion hybrid.”
Wow, I thought to myself. “Are you really that practical?”
You took a sip of the pomtini and cracked, “OK, maybe an Aston Martin DB9 coupe.”
We both burst in laughter. Practicality has its limits after all, right?
And then, out of the blue, you asked me if I loved and respected both my mother and father–your eyes glistening in the moonglow yet piercing with a sharp curiosity, all laughter aside. You meant the question.
I pulled out the vintage photo of my parents on their wedding day in ’65. I found myself staring at it, much more than you, without words. Something in you understood.
And then I asked for your hand in a dance . . . to make up for the spilled drink.
It was summer magic under the stars.
Remember that night? The white linen soirée of a summer to remember.
Well, I figured our romance theme for this summer should be “impracticality, within reason.”
I’ve recreated the soirée but only you and I are the guests this time around. Meet me by the pool, I’ve got a little something of a surprise for you to go along with our lake cottage, babygirl.
It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.
Romance lives. -Rg2
© 2014 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®