Date Night

Half way through the movie I slipped my feet into Andrew's lap.

His hands warm my popcycle toes.

We started out as strangers.

He munched popcorn all through the previews.

I sat indian style in my seat, not moving, hearing him crunch.

He tries to be quiet, but I can still hear it.

The movie is about love.

Real love.

It is about us.

Two hours pass.

The credits roll black and white into the ceiling.

I look over at him.
"I know you still love me."

"I do," and he looks soft.  He is not the same man who was frantically scrubbing dishes in our kitchen two hours ago, trying to make it to the movie on time.  He is not the one who comes home and opens the bills with scrunched up forehead, ignoring the kids.  Ignoring me. 

He is the one who wrapped arms around me on a summer boat when the wind moved fast over our bare skin.
"We used to be like that," he says.
"I know.  And now we are somebodies Mom and Dad.  Isn't it crazy?"
Our foreheads touch and eyes close.  I feel a tear in mine.
"It happened so fast," he says.

"I know.  But I'm so glad you're doing it with me.  Thank you for doing it with me," my voice cracks and I am really crying.  Right here in the dark theatre, I can't help it.  I don't want to help it.  I want him to know.

"Do you think I'm crazy for crying right here?" I ask.
"No," and he means it.  He knows.
We sit huddled into each other.

We are the only people in the theatre.