"Tell me about her"

Her dark hair tickles my face as her head rests lazily on my chest. Her legs are intertwined with mine and her fingers interlock with mine.

She asks about the girl I dated the longest. The one. The whatever. The girl I dated before I was married. I know what she wants. She wants what all women want. She wants a semi-tragic romance of semi-unrequited love which will spur her to fight for my affections, which will drive her to work to become the # 1 in my list of narratives.

I tell her the truth because she asked.

That we dated on and off for * years. That I had changing to do that couldn't be done while I was with her. That we had growing disparate ideas about children and other long term commitments.

She listens carefully and intently.

She presses for my thoughts on children, and re-marriage, and houses and longer life things.

I note that she's begun dropping the "L" word into speech, as in: "I love it when you...." and "I love how you...." and I know that ever so subtly the spiral is deepening its descent.

She asks me more about my ex-wife and I tell her the truth because she asked. I'm never so specific as to solve the mystery, but enough to satisfy that momentary curiosity and enough to instill some dread on her part.

She matches her values to mine and places them in line, and she does what the women I date usually do which is tell me that marriage is unimportant and that it's not what she wants perhaps.
They all say this.
They all eventually flip flop on that.
If that ever changes or deviates, I'll be sure to post it here on this blog first b/c it will be a singularity in human history.
Hasn't happened yet.
They just mean they haven't found the guy YET.
I don't hold it against them, she is readily able to admit that she lives in the present, that what she says is a reflection of how she feels at that moment, an admission that many women seem unable to make.

It dawns on me I haven't been to my place in days and I'm finding it hard to leave her in the mornings, spurning the old days of excuses as to why I'm late to work (traffic, car trouble, accidents, appointments) but I don't care and it is worth it and I drive to work late with a smile on my face and know it is as it should be.

She climbs on top of me, her small hands tugging at my boxers and she begins kissing my neck and rubbing her face against mine, her smile that of the Cheshire cat.

    - Yrs. in Christ