Some wives know because, tonight, they’ll be met at the door by a roses-clad mister. Or maybe it’ll be dinner somewhere with tables covered in cloths and candlelight. A velevet-y box of truffles. A little blue box. A gift out of the box entirely.
No boxes ’round here.
My mister called from work this morning. I just wanted to tell you happy valentines day. And I love you.
Which, truthfully, was more than enough for me. Because by societal standards he might get off easy on this day meant for lovers. On this day of hearts and flowers and chocolate. But, believe me when I tell you, I’m high-maintenance. There is no getting off easy.
He lets me know every single day.
I know because he chops the teary onions. He lets me put my two corners of the fitted sheet on first. And shower while the water is still piping hot.
His phone alarms to remind him to check the pressure of my tires. He makes me drink a whole glass of water before he’ll pour me the wine. When he hears me whisper-singing to any given song, he downloads it and adds it to my playlist, often on the sly.
He does all the work that’s too dirty or too wet or too snake run-in risky. He humors my Disney obsession.
One September night, we stood on a Sonoran desert hilltop and read aloud vows we each penned. And ever since that night, he’s been busy showing me not just with words or flowers or jewelry, but with nitty and gritty. With the stuff that counts.
What more could a girl ask for? Any day of the year.
Happy February 14th, love. We’ve still got it.