As The Count might say.
Today, Allison and I celebrate three years as a couple. In so many ways, it seems barely a year has gone by since I stuttered my way into a relationship, having to go on my first date in a ’90 Plymouth Horizon (I passed up her house and had to double back: what an auspicious beginning) and learning about the entire process as I went along.
Allison and I have had some wonderful damn times, as well as some colossal fights. It’s definitely worth it. That’s her there in the orange dress, during her Senior Homecoming earlier this month (doesn’t she look ravishing?) and me, looking like a drinking straw in a tie.
I’ve always wondered why some couples stay together and don’t. What’s the spark between Allison and I? Je ne sais quoi. Oh, I could give you a lit. student’s spiel, maybe quote some Mike Kadela.
she is a rare and sated dusk
that sires sanctified unrest
she is an insect vigorous
who ambulates as children clap
she is a very happy fool
who fooling, fools us without blood
she is a river humbling rock
the mistress of the open space
she is a dancing cypress tree
(confusing the imperfect heart)
she is a beyond a question
But who can say? Couples have their own unique idiosyncrasies, their own goofy jokes, their own impetuses.
To celebrate our little victory over social entropy, we’re trekking into Chicago on Saturday. We’ll hit the Sears Tower, the Rainforest Café, Marshall Fields, Navy Pier, and probably some other places, too. Pray that we don’t get lost or beaten up by angry buskers. Personally, I’m just glad the Sox have already won: I’d hate to even be near Chicago if it were Game 6, even if US Cellular is south and we’d stay pretty close to the lake. I’ve got our all-day CTA passes, I’ve got maps, and I’ve got no clue how to get around Chicago. Saturday will be interesting.
Since we’re both poor kids (actually, I’m not so much poor as I am heavily invested, in a mutual fund that’s dropped 8% since I bought it), there won’t be any sort of flashy gifts like last year (if you missed it, I’ll give you a hint: it’s not graphite and it’s not a buckeyball), just a day out. Later, though, when we’re all alone, I’ll lean close, my warm breath tickling the nape of her neck, and, as her heart starts to race…. I’ll give her a wet willie. Because hey, je ne sais qoui.