May 22, 2021

My dearest,

You tell me, a little guiltily, that you have eaten another couple scoops of Peanut Butter Crunch. Was it for teatime or was it dessert? Who knows. My baby, you can have your peanut butter any time of the day.

When we first met, the inaugural week of our relationship (our beautiful, shared existence), it was a tub of vanilla Häagen-Dazs that I proffered, to accompany the fresh strawberries you brought me.

Snow white vanilla, pure as our intentions. Ruby red strawberries, as fierce as our passions.

That was over thirteen years ago. A lifetime for some. Now I know better. We are neither innocent nor wild. Instead, we are boring but adventurous. We are homebodies but we love to travel.

I love me my chocolate, dark and sweet. And you your peanut butter, spread between slices of bread or crackers, lining the depths of a well folded crêpe, oozing out from a molten lava cake, and yes, as a Häagen-Dazs flavour you’ve never tasted before till now.

You never have to feel guilty for enjoying what you love. I never do, not when I’m busy adoring you, every minute of our every day. No, no guilt. Only gratitude.

Yours, ever and always.