Twenty-three years ago Loved One and I met at the Northlight Theatre, “Mississippi Delta.” The only thing I remember about the play is it featured a woman who could pick up a cigarette with her ziggy and blow smoke rings. I wonder if anyone can really do that. Anyways, in “Mississippi Delta,” she was a hit at striptease because of this trick.
I was not looking for love in any place, let alone a play on Super Bowl Sunday, but there he was, confident in his blue jeans. I was late. He saw me slip in.
We bumped into each other at the concession stand. Literally. I turned left with a hot cider and he turned right with a cup of cocoa. We started talking, and it was as if we knew each other all our lives. He says I picked him up. I know better. He thought I was a safe bet when I gave him my business card identifying me as a “Sanitarian/Microbiogist.” I thought he was worth considering, probably not into sports at all, since he was at the Northlight during the Super Bowl. The truth: although I hate to clean, I do love clean; he is a sports fanatic, but has little patience for a bad Super Bowl game; we still stumble over each other, go in opposite directions, and cannot fold a sheet together without some redirection.
We celebrate Super Bowl Sunday as our anniversary; often with dinner and a play on Saturday, so we can watch the Super Bowl, too, just in case it’s a good game. This year is no exception.
I got this postcard in the mail:
I scribble on the back of the card: