When S. and I first met we used to email each other a great deal. Not because we didn’t see one another often or because we lived great distances from each other…simply because both of us were "writers" much more than we were "talkers". I have miraculously (through hard drive crashes and various other computer malfunctions) managed to save each and every one of these emails from over the past six years (six years, wow!).
Sometimes when I’m feeling rather schmaltzy and reminiscent I will go into my email archives, search through the files and click open the one labeled "S.". Curled up in my big red armchair with a cup of coffee I slowly read through them, starting from the very first one (December 27, 2001).
They are full of vim and vinegar, those emails, sprinkled with affection and innuendos that don’t even enter our everyday conversations these days. It isn’t that we don’t still feel that amount of affection towards each other now, it is more that we simply don’t have the time to express it. With a 20-month old at home, all the stresses that come along with owning a new (100 year-old) home and me carrying around all the baggage that comes from having been sick again six months ago, we just don’t have the time or energy.
One such email, in response to him telling me he had some Rheo Thompson chocolates hiding in his apartment that he was worried about eating and regretting that profligacy soon thereafter, I wrote:
"Mmmmmm. Chocolate. That and champagne has always been something I rarely indulge in but love too much to give up in entirety. They do both something to my head…but I do agree…too much and the regret becomes unbearable…I’m going to have to raid that safe of yours…"
I read it again this morning and realized that his love of chocolate has not diminished over the years, though mine has slightly. And though I might fall asleep most nights in front of the television and I rarely send him emails that don�t center around a to-do list, when I am faced with concocting a dessert that will please his palate, I will always turn to that sweet, dark extravagance. I made him this chocolate pie recently and he ate every crumb, even returning the love and devotion by washing the dishes the night he finished the pie (that is the marker of true love). The pie should be called "I Love My Chocoholic Husband Pie"…how sappy.
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