The other night, prompted by something or other he’d seen on Facebook, my husband turns to me and asks, “What’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever done for you?” Easy, I think, because obviously the most romantic thing he’s ever done for me will leap to the front of my memory and right out of my mouth. An awkward silence ensues, followed by hemming and hawing, until eventually, and visibly disappointed, he says, “Well, whatever it was, it must not have been that romantic.”
In truth, our daily life is not exactly a series of Grand Romantic Gestures. And your friend who acts like hers is? She’s lying. But I find romance in the little things. In the occasional springtime bouquet of irises he’ll bring me, which he knows are my favorite flower because they are purple. In coming home from a trip to a candlelit apartment and a glass of wine. Hell, I think it’s super romantic when he brings home Popeye’s without me asking him to and he gets my order exactly right; for a writer of gay romance, I’m not especially hard to wow. Continue reading
mister stewardess 