“Thank you,” I gave the young woman a kind smile as I handed her my menu, Pete’s written in gold cursive across the leather. She forced a smile back before sauntering back into the kitchen, barely giving my husband an excuse as he watched her walk away. He forced his eyes back to me, and I could almost see the disappointment in his eyes, knowing he would have to go home with me, the fifty something mother of his children, rather than a barely legal college student.
“Are you ready for your gift?” He asked me sweetly as he pulled out a small blue bag; Tiffany’s. He slid it over to me and I pretended to be excited as I crept my hand inside and felt for the small box almost hidden under the receipt.
“Oh, thank you, Evan! I love it.” I told him, stroking his ego as I had for the past 27 years. I thumbed the small charm, a blue teddy bear for our son. He came up with the brilliant idea about ten years ago to buy me a charm bracelet so he wouldn’t have to think too hard about what to buy each year until it filled up. After he filled up the charm bracelet representing our marriage with hearts and a little Eiffel Tower--I decided not to remind him that he stayed home for our trip to France--he gave me a new one for the kids. I will give him some credit though, he gave me a little key charm one year after giving me a heart shaped lock the previous year, that took more effort than I thought he would be willing to put in.
After I clipped the new charm onto my bracelet, I took his hand and squeezed, “Thank you again, honey. This is definitely one of my favorites.” I began to finger each charm on my bracelet, examining each one as he stroked my hand. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, his eyes crinkling slightly in disgust at the age of my body as he ran his thumb over my hand, the wrinkled skin and prominent veins eventually forcing him to almost yank his hand away, just in time for the food to arrive. Just before we began to eat, he grasped my hand again and smiled lovingly at me,
“Annie, you’re perfect. You’re my best friend as well as my wife, and I feel honored every day that you chose me to be your husband.” I gave him a small smile in return, pulled my hand into my lap and began to eat.
We laid down in bed that night, staring at each other, waiting for the other to initiate the depressing anniversary sex. He gave up first, reaching out his large hand to cup my face and stroke my hair, “I love you, Annie.”
“No, you don’t.”
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