Smitten

“Any time.”

“As long as it’s not right now, apparently,” Winston murmurs sarcastically.

Bye, bye, bye. Kiss, kiss, kiss. We say all necessary goodbyes, and, finally, Fish closes our front door and turns around, a wicked smile on his handsome face.

“Liar,” I say playfully as he strides toward me. “You didn’t take a nap, did you, Old Man?”

Fish scoffs. “Hell no. I’m strong as a bull, woman. I just needed time to get everything set up for our little anniversary party.”

I kiss him deeply, feeling physically intoxicated by the glorious fragrances floating around me, not to mention his cologne. “You clever man. You know flowers always make me extra horny.”

Fish waggles his eyebrows. “I was counting on it.”

I grab my husband’s hand and pull him upstairs toward our “new” bedroom. The one we built twenty-odd years ago after our son was born. When we get upstairs, I discover it’s also filled with white blooms—various ways to promise forever.

“Oh, Matthew. Thank you.”

We tumble into our large, comfy bed and peel off our clothes. As we’ve done many times before, we kiss and caress, worship and whisper. As my husband licks me into a frenzy, I run my fingers through his hair that’s nowadays streaked with a bit of sexy silver.

I’ve never made love to anyone but my beautiful husband. My eternal love. As crazy as it sounds, I’ve never even kissed anyone else. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, I’m quite certain if I’d slept with a hundred men before Fish, searching for the perfect man, the perfect lover and best friend, I would have immediately stopped searching the moment I met Fish. Matthew. The same way I actually did. Whether Matthew Fishberger was my first or my hundred-and-first, there’s no doubt I would have known, instantly, he was The One. My one and only. It just so happens I found him first. Lucky me.

When we’re done making love, we lie in each other’s arms, listening to the sounds of the ocean through our bedroom window.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Not really. You?”

“Not really. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling on the balcony. I thought we’d open that bad boy up and watch the sunset.”

“Ooh.”

“After that, whenever you get hungry, I’ll make you the best anniversary meal you’ve ever had.”

“What are you making me?”

“Vegan enchiladas.”

“Patti’s recipe?”

“Of course.”

“Oooh, honey. You spoil me.”

“Oreo pie for dessert.”

“Gah! Best anniversary ever. I got you a present, too. Hang on.” I run to the closet, grab the box, and launch myself onto the bed. “Here you go. It’s not much, but . . .”

Fish unwraps the gift and discovers a little photo album I’ve created commemorating our thirty years together, beginning with the first photo I ever sent him—a picture of me holding the very first bouquet of flowers he’d sent to me in Boston—a stunning spray of red roses.

“Red roses. Not yellow,” he whispers, making me smile. He touches my young face in the album, and then looks up at me. “I already knew I loved you by the time I sent those flowers to you.”

“I already knew I loved you when I got them.”

We share a huge smile, before Fish flips the page. And there I am, so very young again, wearing a pink tank top and shorts. It’s the photo Fish snapped remotely while I danced for him that very first time in my bedroom in Boston. Fish and I talk about the image for a moment—the memories—before he flips another page.

This time, we’re looking at our first-ever selfie, taken in Times Square. As we both know, that selfie was snapped on a magical night of firsts. We had our first kiss that night. We exchanged our first “I love you’s.” After Fish serenaded me at Madison Square Garden, he uploaded that selfie to make us “Instagram Official,” as we kids used to say. And, of course, my husband and I made love for the first time that night, too. Fish and I reminisce about all of it, before Fish turns the page again.

And now, we’re looking at Fish in his underwear, smoldering at the camera like an underwear model, in a photo snapped by me in our hotel room in New York, the night after our night of big firsts.

“Why the hell did you include this one?” Fish says, laughing.

“Because that’s one of my all-time favorite photos of you,” I reply. “Because you were gorgeous in that moment. Sexy. Confident. Charismatic. Romantic. Perfect. And you’re still all of those things today, all these years later.”

Fish flips another page. And another one. And each page reflects yet another special memory from our thirty years together. Until, finally, by the time Fish reaches the last image—a snapshot taken last month at Alfie’s third birthday party—he’s got tears in his green eyes.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He closes the book. “I love you so much.”