Our closet is the modest walk-in variety, small by middle-America standards but obscene if I compare it beyond our back yard. I prefer not thinking about either.
I'm hanging a pair of jeans when I feel his presence before I hear him. It's crowded when two are standing inside and I hurry to get out of his way.
But I'm not in his way, I'm the reason he stepped inside. I realize this as he blocks my exit and wraps his arms around me.
He kisses me softly but I back up and run my tongue over my teeth, not having taken time to brush my teeth after lunch. "Does anyone brush their teeth after lunch?" I wonder, and then I wonder if I'm the only person on the planet who considers thoughts like these.
I find some remnant of chili between teeth, dislodge it and swallow. "N i c e ..." he says and I fling back "Well, I don't think that's the kinda thing you're after," and we laugh at the contrast between his gesture of affection and mine, the opposite of sexy, and I think this...this is a picture of marriage...
...well-worn marriage,
...decades-long marriage,
...marriage grown comfortable and familiar and tested, with occasional flashes of brilliance found in falling stars and unbrushed teeth.
He kisses me again and I taste hunger and he says "I'm so glad that after 23 years I still like to kiss my wife," and I remind him we've been kissing for 28 years if you count dating. Then he says some more things that would make my children blow chunks if I shared them out loud but give me reason to smile. I wiggle closer.
But then he lets go of me and I start on the next load of laundry and the moment is history.
And that, my young married friends is a spectacular lesson in foreplay.
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