Henry had called me "darling" for years, but I hadn't been able to come up with a pet name for him. It wasn't for lack of trying.
"Honey, come help me with this!"
He poked his head into the kitchen. "'Honey?'" he asked. "Do I look sticky?"
I glared at him. "It's supposed to be sweet… just get over here, Henry."
"Want to go grab dinner, babe?"
He made a face. "I am two hundred and thirty-seven years old, Jo. I am not a babe."
"Never mind," I grumbled.
"It's late, dear. I'll talk to you in the morning."
"'Dear' is good," he said.
I shook my head, although he couldn't see it over the phone. "No, it's too…"
"Normal?"
"Exactly."
We were on the couch, my head in his lap. He was absently stroking my hair.
"Bear," I suggested lazily.
"What?"
"Duck. Bunny. Kitten."
He raised his eyebrows at me. "Are you proposing pets, or pet names?" My mischievous grin clued him in. "No, no, no, and no," he told me, hands moving from my hair to my sensitive stomach. I tried to jerk away, but I could never quite escape when he tickled me. "Absolutely not!"
On our honeymoon in Paris, Henry taught me the occasional French word. Usually it was the name of a dish in a café or the French names for well-known landmarks: Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame de Paris, and so on.
"Henry?" I asked as we strolled along the Seine.
"Yes, Jo?"
"How do you say 'my love' in French?"
"It's 'mon amour,' darling."
I tried it out. "Mon amour." The words felt pleasant on my tongue – not tacky, or overused, or meaningless.
He stopped and dipped me back for a long, slow kiss. When he finally pulled me up, he smiled into my eyes. "I'm so glad you're my wife, darling."
"And I've never been happier, mon amour."
Just a short and sweet one-shot that I wrote forever ago (pun intended). Hope you enjoy!