February 18, 2013

My dearest,

How romantic, our friends, exclaim — Chinese New Year in Paris!

It’s winter, I say. Cold.

The better to huddle and cuddle together with, they coo.

Are you kidding? We won’t touch each other with frosty fingers. Hand over the thickest pair of gloves instead.

Oh how sweet, they tweet, giving up your favourite gloves for your beloved!

Are you kidding, I say. We fought for the damn things.

Uhm, they rally, it’s good you still have the passion in your lives?

Passion? That’s late night cable TV, my dears. We go to bed early and make sure the radiator is on full-blast.

At least you are warm together, they gasp, one last dying attempt.

Not when your bloody partner steals the sheets!

And so, this is what you get instead of romance — thievery of bedsheets and warm, woollen gloves, the nervous tracking down of espresso bars instead of lingerie, the serious sit-down sessions at the dining table to discuss every major decision that could change our lives … and you know what? I would take this any day over romance alone.

I do miss the days before the surprise flatulence attacks though. Ah well.

Yours, ever and always.