It’s Saturday morning and my wife is smiling at me in a way that melts my heart. I am indeed a lucky man. On other occasions she has a different look that’s capable of melting someone’s face, leaving her victim looking like the Gestapo agent in
Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s not happened to me. Not yet, anyway.
This is one of those special moments I’d like to remember, although I don’t know how best to do it. Some people write diary entries, take photos or drink champagne when there’s something to celebrate. Others may carve their initials in a tree, get a tattoo or buy another charm for their bracelet. I’m looking for something that’s more personal. Something unique.
February is already a special month for me and Mrs B. We first met on February 16th, two days after St Valentine's Day. To be honest, I was rather pleased with myself. Not only did I have a guaranteed reminder every year, I could also buy a romantic anniversary gift at a dramatically discounted price. We’d feast on cut-price chocolates. If only we’d thought to get married on the same day.
This morning I’ve just presented Mrs B with a plate of toasted crumpets and a jar of Marmite. That, I’m sure, has helped prompt the smile. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. As I lean forward to put butter on my toast, Rupert the cat jumps into the space behind me. He's not allowed on my lap when we're eating but has decided that becoming a bony cushion is an acceptable compromise. When I sit down again, I perch carefully on the edge of my chair. Rupert starts purring loudly, although anyone hearing the noise without seeing the creature would imagine I was incubating a gargling pigeon. Is this affection? Is this happiness? I turn to address the cat. "What do you know about love, Rupert?" He looks at me curiously, as though I'm the one making a strange sound. My wife answers. "He doesn't think about love any more. Not after the operation." She then mimes scissors in a way I find slightly disconcerting.
I flinch, an unconscious response to Rupert’s emasculation. Mrs B leans across the table to give me a reassuring kiss. I flinch again, this time because she's forgotten the plate of crumpets in front of her. Afterwards, I notice that her dressing gown is now marked with a Marmite outline of her right breast, like a savoury Turin Shroud. I know it’s not permanent but maybe it’ll last until our wedding anniversary.
First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 101 February 2015.
