Entwined

​She looks incredible tonight. Happy and laughing. God, that laugh. I can’t tell which hand is mine anymore, our fingers are so tightly laced together. I don’t know how to navigate this crowded sidewalk while telling her about my day and keeping eye contact and not letting go of her hand, but I don’t want to break anything of this moment. She hasn’t given me this kind of attention in months. I think she holds it hostage, doling it out like a reward when I take her out of the house. But it’s so hard to schedule these nights, between swim practice and skating lessons and burnt dinners and laundry to fold.

​Why does he have to make such a big deal about us going out – fancy dinner, stroll in the park – we’re not in a ‘50s sitcom (or is it? look at this dress he bought me), why can’t we just go to a movie, or walk the dogs together, why can’t we just be this close every day when will he hear that romance isn’t all roses and champagne maybe he could just help with dinner or getting the kids ready for bed?
​He does look handsome in his suit, though, doesn’t he, wearing it only because he knows how much I like it – going out of his way not to mention how the warm night is making him sweat so he can be my ‘50s-style hero – when was the last time he smiled like that while talking about work – why don’t we walk hand-in-hand like this everywhere, like when we had just begun dating and one flash of that smile – oh, yes, that smile (right there!) – it’s still there, isn’t it?

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