I gave you the idea from a bride magazine . We were lounging in our oak bed: you were mesmerized by sports and I was transfixed by romance. I broke the gap to read aloud a paragraph about an engaged couple separated by distance: Each month, on the same day as their wedding day, her fiancee sent roses. At first it was a dozen, then eleven...
"Isn't that romantic?," I asked. Still watching TV, you said, "Yeah."
It became a game to surprise me with roses on the fifth of each month for a year.
I squealed at the bouquets in the washing machine, the hope chest, the shower and under the covers of our bed. One night you even drove to campus and searched the parking structures for my car.
Later, naked again, you lay on our white down comforter like a bear in feathers. The nicest thing we own is our oak bed. Oak the color of honey. Its heavy carved mantel is embossed with square panels. It is supported by rails and four sturdy, rounded bed posts. As I walk by, I think you will reach out for me. I step, self-conscious, expecting your arms. Instead, under folds of white, your pink toes wiggle for me to pull each nub. When I tug just right, the toe pops as air is forced out of the joint, and you say,
"I love you."