Sometimes I think that Peter and I grew up together. I had already been married and divorced when I met him, and at the age of 26–he was 29–I was no child. I met him at a brunch to which I was invited and he was cooking omelets for people. It was an almost love at first sight thing. I remember thinking: if this person doesn’t ask me out for a date, I’ll get his phone number and call him. I was a very angry person then, mad at the world and mad at all men. I hated everything. So it didn’t feel like falling in love. It felt as if I met a person who could be a good, good friend. And I was right.
Peter was making omelets and he had his grated cheese and vegetables all organized and ready. The first thing I said to him was: “Can I help you?” He likes to remember this. He responded: “You could cut up the mushrooms.” So I sliced them nice and thin. After this brunch was over we went for a walk and we were never really separated again.
When I say that we grew up together, it means that we made all the mistakes that young couples make but we survived them. Right from the first we found that we had things in common. He loved Robert Frost’s poetry, we liked the same music. He also liked the “nonsense verse” written by Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll and had fun, laughing and reading it out loud to each other.
Everybody thought–our families, I mean–that we were crazy. My poor mother, on my bringing Peter home for the first time, with his arm and his Catholic background…but I’ve never “seen” Peter’s arm. My eyes can see it but in my head it doesn’t register. Sometimes, when we’re out and people stare, I’ve perfected a way of fixing my eyes on this person and moving my body so that I’m “protecting” my husband from their stares. Of course I’ve been lectured to not try, ever, to protect him but, hey–when you love someone, you just do those things.
lgmwriting 