September 1, 2002

A Love Note

As we walked from the black of the theater into the deepening shadows of the late afternoon, we began to discuss the movie. Neither one of us had expected to enjoy it as much as we had. Suspending our disbelief, even for only an hour and a half, was exactly what we needed. Walking down the street I suddenly noticed how quiet it had become: not a car nor a bird was singing. My hearing seemed to extend only as far as my wife’s voice.

I recounted my surprise, when during a particular scene, I was the only one in the audience to laugh. Perhaps people were chuckling to themselves but mine was the only real sound mingling with the dialogue on the screen.

Visualizing it once more, I suddenly laughed a second time. This one was like a huge embarrassing belch, one that comes seemingly out of nowhere. It surprised both of us. My wife said my name in a way that signified “it’s about time!”

I hadn’t laughed like that in months. And, just like a burp, it was a wonderful relief to get it out.

We continued walking towards an Indian restaurant. The weather was warm but pleasant: a welcomed break from the endless humidity of a DC summer. Choosing a table outside (we never sit outside), we continued our conversation. We were on a date: alone for the first time in weeks.

I couldn’t help noticing the light, a blue even sort of glow, emanating from my wife’s face. I imagined making a photograph of her but immediately knew the reality was far better than any image I could make. I told her how beautiful she looked. She repeated my name in a way that said, well, you know.

While this arrived more gently than my earlier noises, my words surprised us once again. I hadn’t said something like that in months.

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