October 11, 2020

My dearest,

I dig out the green kernels, crushed and sticky, from the bottom of the glazed cinnamon bun.

Pistachios, you announce.

Yes, pistachios, I agree. I’m too full from the banana croissant, I say, and our multi-course lunch, that itself an excuse for you to have your once-a-year hairy crabs – those small, sweet crustaceans I always denounce as a low return on investment (so much extraction and prying for so little flesh!) – so much so I can’t bear more fluffy white carbohydrates.

But these emerald nuts, full of mystery and myth, delectable remnants from a time of flying carpets and magic lamps, these I can’t refuse. I surrender to their charm.

Pistachios, you see, are not unlike you, my dearest.

I can’t refuse you either, when you crave hairy crabs and when you decide on sticky buns. I have always surrendered to your charms and your black moods and your smiles and your weariness and your alarm and your deep confidence. I have said yes to your best of days and your worst, and I mean it still. I always will.

Yours, ever and always.