Eric could, and did, lose his temper. He'd raise his voice and stomp around the house and slam things. When he did that, though, Tami knew he was like the weather: if you don't like it, wait an hour, and it'll change. He'd come to her later, head bent, apologies on his lips.
Eric could, and did, forget things. He'd promise to take out the trash on his way to work in the morning, and there it would be when she got home, full to the brim, with a week to go until the next trash day. When he did that, though, Tami knew she had to let her irritation go and remember all the things he didn't forget: to love her, to honor her, and to remain faithful to her.
Eric could, and did, pester her for sex when she wasn't in the mood. He'd woo her too obviously, then hint, then pout, then grumble. When he did that, though, Tami tried, and sometimes even succeeded, to remember that when a wife said "I want to fool around with you," a husband heard instead "I love you," and he heard it more loudly and clearly than he did when she actually said "I love you."
Eric could, and did, have a lot of flaws. Yet there was one thing he always got right: their anniversary. Always.
So when their twenty-third anniversary rolled around, Tami kept waiting for the surprise. No breakfast in bed in the early morning? Then it would be a surprise romantic lunch in the mid-afternoon, him swinging by her office during his free period (which happened to fall just before the paltry twenty-five minute lunch break) to pick her up, opening the car door for her, taking her someplace special, pulling out her chair.
No surprise romantic lunch in the mid-afternoon? Then in the late afternoon he would talk Assistant Coach Harlan into giving up part of his free period to cover the first fifteen minutes of his health class while he skipped out and over to her office with flowers in his hand, a romantic speech on his lips, and a promise to watch with her that evening her favorite romantic comedy, no matter how awful.
No flowers or romantic speech in the late afternoon? Then he'd tell her to take some time to go out by herself after school and make sure he had a candle lit dinner waiting for her when she got home.
No candle lit dinner? Then after Gracie was down for the night, he'd sneak back in the bedroom, tell her to wait in the living room, draw her a bubble bath, scatter rose petals from the bath to the bed, and pour her a glass of champagne before telling her to come in.
No surprise bubble bath? Then…well…
Tami ventured into the bedroom. Eric had told her goodnight. He hadn't told her to wait in the living room. He'd just told her goodnight. She'd assumed he was preparing something, however, so she had lingered in the living room, but it had been twenty minutes already, and he hadn't come to get her. She peered hesitantly around the bedroom, searching for any sign of romance.
Eric was on top of the covers, reading a sports magazine. He was in his sweats. The ones with the hole in the crotch and the coffee stain on the knee. He was wearing a Panthers t-shirt. Not a Pioneer's t-shirt. Not even a Lion's T-shirt. A seven-year-old Panthers T-shirt. The one that was torn up under the armpit.
She came and sat on top of the covers next to him. "Hey…" she said suspiciously.
"Hey," he said. "You tired? You want it to be lights out? Or do you want sit up and read with me? Or do you want to fool around? Because if you do, you know I'm always up for it."
"Uh…" she bent her leg so her foot was against her opposite knee. She looked around the room again. Not a sign. Not a hint of romance. "No."
"No to which one?"
She slid back and stretched out her legs. "Are you forgetting something, Eric?"
"Oh, shit! Was it trash day? I thought that was tomorrow."
"No…it's not trash day."
"I picked up the milk on the way home. I remembered that."
"Hon, it's our anniversary."
The page he was turning stopped in mid air and then fluttered back down. She could see the horror on his face, the near terror in his eyes.
"Uh…Oh, God, Tami, I'm so sorry," Eric stuttered. "With Coach Wayans telling me last week he was for sure leaving to be head coach of Quaker High, and then finding out early this week I'm going to be losing my quarterback to St. Stephen's next school year…my mind's been fixating on how we're gonna possibly win enough games next season…and...I…I'm so sorry, baby."
"Seriously? You forgot?"
He tossed the magazine on the night stand and reached for her hand. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. Let's do something special Saturday, a'right? All afternoon. I'll arrange the babysitter and everything. I'll take you someplace special."
"Fine," she said, in a way that made it abundantly clear that it was not fine. "No to the reading, no to the fooling around," she said and went to the bathroom to change into sweats herself. When she got back, he was under the covers. She slid under them too.
He reached for the light, "Tami, babe, I'm really sorry."
"Yeah, you said that. It's just the twenty-third. Nothing special, right?"
"Every year with you is special."
She grunted. She lay down on her side, her back to him. He lay down next to her and put a timid hand on her hip. He slid close but didn't quite dare to press his body against hers. "I love you."
"Mhmhmmm. Sure."
He sighed. "Yeah. Okay. I guess I deserve to be shut out."
She felt his body flop around; the bed shifted as he turned away. She steamed for a moment, but then she thought about their twenty-three years together. Twenty-three years of shared hopes and disappointments, joys and sorrows, laughter and tears. Hours and hours of conversation over wine, hours and hours of washing dishes and changing diapers together, tender kisses and wild kisses, affectionate hugs and ardent embraces, quiet steady everyday commitment and flashes of passion. Twenty-three years was a long time. It was a long time for one man to love one woman faithfully, a long time to keep forgiving her all her little flaws, a long time to stand steadily by her side.
She rolled over, slid close to him, put a hand around his waist, and let it stray downward to find that hole in his sweats. "I want to fool around," she said.
[***]
The alarm went off at 6:30 AM. They usually left for the high school at 7:30, but Tami knew Eric had a planning meeting early this morning to discuss Coach Wayan's replacement. He would already be gone. She stretched and yawned.
The love making last night had been satisfying. There hadn't been any massive fireworks, but it had been pleasant. After twenty-three years of marriage, sex could admittedly become routine, but that wasn't such a bad thing. Eric had learned what her every sigh, moan, pout, and movement meant. She could tell him what she wanted without having to tell him what she wanted. It was pleasant...satisfying...comforting.
If you had told her at the age of seventeen that sex would one day be "comforting," she would have revolted at the thought. How boring, she would have said, with rolled eyes. In her 40's however, she was glad of the fact. It was comforting to know the guy you were with would be there today and tomorrow and the next day no matter how the sex happened to turn out this particular time; it was comforting to know he would never seek only his own pleasure but would always take pains to ensure yours; it was comforting to be familiar with his body and to know he was familiar with yours; it was comforting to know you were desired no matter how many years had passed, no matter how much two children had distorted your body; it was comforting to feel his arms surround you in the aftermath and to know you were safe, absolutely, completely safe.
None of this was to imply that their sex life was unvaried. Yet even in its variation it was reassuringly familiar. Though Tami had never quite specified it in words, she was aware that they enjoyed four primary categories of physical connection: about two-sixths of the time, they "made love" (communing with their bodies and experiencing a deep emotional connection); about two-sixths of the time they just "fooled around" (with smiles and laughter and whispers and love play); about one-sixth of the time, they merely "had sex" (efficient sex, as in, "I realize it's been a long time and you probably deserve some attention, but I'd really like to go to sleep, finish this book, etc…"); and another one-sixth of the time (most often after she'd been turned on by watching him coach a game, seeing him take command of the field, fully in his element, his hair tussled and matted from the fray), they downright "fucked."
Tami couldn't have said which type was her favorite. She knew of course that "having sex" was her least favorite, though even it had its place and served its own good purpose, but she couldn't say which of the other three was her favorite. She appreciated them all, at different times and in different ways. Last night, despite her invitation to "fool around," had in fact fallen in the "love making" category. Eric had been tender with her; it was clear to Tami that he had been especially grateful to her for offering herself at that particular moment. She smiled now as she thought of the quiet yet complete pleasure they had given one another.
She rolled out of bed and into the shower. When she was dressed and came to the kitchen, she discovered that he had made her fresh coffee before he left (the timer showed it had been sitting less than thirty minutes) and some iced cinnamon rolls (something he usually made only on Sunday mornings; a special treat). Also on the breakfast table was a piece of plain white computer paper he had folded to make a handmade card. On the front he had drawn a rose, or attempted to. She laughed affectionately at the sad effort. He had even colored it with Gracie's colored pencils. Above it, he had written, "Happy Anniversary to My Wonderful Wife."
She opened the card and read his legible but undisciplined cursive: "Thank you for giving me so very many years of support, encouragement, laughter, and love. Thank you for my beautiful children. Thank you for the years and years of life – real, true, beautiful life. Most of all, thank you for accepting me despite my shortcomings. I love you. I know how lucky I am. – Eric."
Tami's bottom lip slid beneath her teeth as she strove to blink the happy tears from her eyes.
He would do something special with her Saturday, she did not doubt. He would put a lot of planning and effort into it and not a little money. She would enjoy it, and she would thank him for it, but whatever it was, it would be nothing compared to this single, paper-thin, hand-drawn card.
THE END