Hi hi, Future Wife.
Let’s go for a walk.
I’ll take you on a tour of my town. It’s a little overcast, but it won’t take very long.
We’ll head down towards the harbour. I’ll gently guide you away from the road, and I’ll walk on the side nearest traffic. You’ll ask, “No sidewalks?” I’ll laugh – kind of a “Ha!” – and tell you that you’re cuuuuuuute.
In the snuggly comfortable silence, as we meander down a short lane, I’ll start singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” You won’t recognize it. I’ll tell you what it is. You’ll tell me you don’t like Springsteen.
I’ll refuse to speak for four minutes.
Then I’ll point out the place where we got pinched by the fuzz that Hallowe’en, back in the day.
And you’ll say, “Pinched?”
“Okay. Just checking.”
We’ll hold hands and swing them a little. I’ll dance with just my head and shoulders, as we stroll.
We’ll get to a long set of wooden stairs, leading to the waterfront. I’ll stop you, as we descend, and help you to step over the seventh step, which is a bit rotten.
“What’s wrong with it?” you’ll ask.
“Dry rot. Or wet rot. Vaguely moist rot? I don’t know.”
By the time we get to the bottom, it’ll have started misting. I’ll take off my hooded sweatshirt and put it on you. It’ll be way too big. Just huge on you. The sleeves will reach a good six inches past the end of your finger tips. You’ll flap your arms like a cute baby bird– that touched something gross with the end of her wings. Possibly boy bird cooties. I’ll roll the sleeves up a few (dozen) turns.
I’ll put up the hood and pull the drawstring, making most of your face disappear. You’ll say “real nice” but it’ll sound like “shreal niiisshhh” because of all the smushing, you know. But then I’ll miss your pretty mug too much and loosen the string.
And give you a kiss.
You’ll take my arm, and we’ll walk out on the big, slippery rocks. I’ll point out the island at the mouth of the harbour.
“There used to be a lighthouse on that island. Now there’s just one on the point. Right there. AND way back in the day, the privateer John Paul Jones allegedly hung out, and maybe even hid some treasure, on that island.” And I’ll say it fast because I get all dorkcited when talking about treasure. And lighthouses.
But then you’ll claim he was actually a pirate.
I’ll shake my head.
“You think he was a privateer and NOT a pirate?” you’ll ask.
“I think you’re wrong.”
It’ll start raining harder. You’ll shiver. I’ll rub your arms vigourously and then pull you in for a huge hug, from behind.
We’ll look out and see that one sunny patch, slowly making it’s way towards us from across the strait.
I’ll press my lips gently in a kiss against your soft neck.
Then a little higher.
You’ll wiggle back into me.
I’ll let out a little Mmmmm in your ear.
Then I’ll whisper, “I still think he was a privateer.”
Wanna go for a walk?