The Marriage Matinee

             My marriage is like a movie, without the musical score, the soft age-reducing lighting, or a personal makeup artist.  But other than that - identical.  Whimsical, thrilling, action scenes, sometimes slow in parts, and completely consuming, until death do us part and everything fades to black.  At least that's what I assume will happen once we hit a hundred or so.

  My husband loves me in a hurry on Monday, once the school bus leaves and before he's late for work.  He trails into his office with a corner of his shirt untucked and lipstick near his ear.  It's a good thing his office is in the basement because he'd never make it out of the house before ten.

Tuesday he runs errands, fills the car with gas, picks up the dry cleaning, and manages to find time to shoot hoops at the park.  He bops in at lunchtime, sweating and red faced, his hair flattened to his scalp and his libido on full alert.  I avoid his groping hands as I cook pasta, while his lips graze my neck from behind.  Sending caution to the wind I spin around and pull him to the floor.

 Wednesday is grocery day.  He tags along to pick out his favorite cereal and ice cream, as though I don't already know what he likes.  A blonde walks by and his eyes widen in appreciation.  His lips curve up slightly before I flick his ear with my finger to get his attention, and he shrugs his shoulders as though to say, I can't help it, I'm a man.

  He's not the prettiest guy in the cinema, sort of rough around the edges, angular, hard, and rumpled at times, but like Harrison Ford he knows what a woman wants: to be blasted through space, made a prisoner of love, saved from her own stupidity, and taken for a ride on a beast of burden.

Stupidity comes on Thursday when I lock the keys in the car along with the dog. He comes when I call; drops everything to save the day.  The dog wags his tail in thanks, and so do I.      

On Friday nights he becomes the beast.  Right after the ten o'clock news, and before The Tonight Show begins, posing in his boxers, his nearly hairless chest puffed up to he-man proportions, he struts his stuff.  I can't resist him when he sings YMCA in my ear as we dance circles over the bedroom floor.

            Lazy Saturdays; unwinding our legs in the morning light, running my fingers through his unruly hair, watching cartoons with our little one plopped in the middle of the bed.  He traces my lips with the tip of one finger, the pressure soft and seductive.  I grin and bite him, laughing as he yelps and starts to tickle me, drawing our child into the fray until everyone is giggling uncontrollably.

                       Sundays are filled with crimson carpet, hard-backed pews, and hand shaking.  The preacher stands tall and straight, his eyes seeming to look right into our souls as he scans our faces, moistens his lips, and reads from the Word.  Quietness rests on hearts as the Holy Spirit baptism rains down abiding joy, descending like manna to nourish our souls throughout the coming week. 

           There may be a few plot twists and turns, heartaches and loss, in the next few years, but when we've finished all the popcorn and the reel is at an end, I think our love will shine in the marriage hall of fame.  Don't you just love happy endings?