you’ll wear it well, future wife
I have this plaid shirt in my closet. It doesn’t fit me. At all. I should give it away, donate it or chuck it out. Something. But I can’t. I look at it once in a while.
I keep it in there because one day I want you to wear it to bed, and then get up in the morning and lounge in it, with your hair up, as you read and have a coffee. A coffee I made you.
I can picture it all so clearly.
It’s going to be big on you. Possibly really big. And I will grin like mad as I watch you roll up the sleeves. And up. And up.
And I am going to find it ridiculously sexy when you sit on our comfy chair (that we compete for on lazy days) and tuck your shapely, bare legs up under you. Because the best kind of love always has some fun wanting involved, dear.
Oh man. When you stand on your tippiest of toes to kiss me, and your wrap your arms around my neck, the shirt will move up. My hands are so going to be on your bum.
And after all the delightful making out, you’re going to be hungry. You’re going to crave pancakes.
You’re going to request that I make them for you by adding a bunch of Es and a few Rs to my name.
I’ll going to pretend I’m cranky and won’t do it, but we both know I will.
I’ll start gathering ingredients and realize that we are out of eggs. I’ll ask if you’ll eat something else.
“But I had my little heart set on pancakes.”
And I’ll melt. But I’ll pretend I’m tough and say, “Sweetie, we’re out of eggs.”
“I mean I cooould go to the store. Like this. In public. Would you like that?” you’ll ask.
“Or I could put on more clothes. How would you feel about that?”
“Bad. On the inside. Where my feelings live.”
“I though as much. So…”
“I’m going to the store for eggs for you?”
“I think that would be for the best.”
And you’ll call me while I’m still at the store, to tell me something else you’d like picked up.
I’ll call you a pain in the butt.
You’ll say, “I just unbuttoned another button…”
I’ll reply, “I’ll get everything you want and be home in three minutes.”
And I’ll make you pancakes. I’ll sneak in some chocolate chips, because come on.
You’ll chomp it all down like there is some kind of prize at stake. I’ll be incredibly, ridiculously charmed.
I’ll even wash the dishes after. Because, I mean, you can’t make someone a delicious breakfast and then expect them to wash their own dishes.
You’ll be sitting in the chair, all cozy, but thinking about how nice I am. You’ll get a little lonely and walk to the kitchen to watch, and not volunteer to help.
I’ll look over and there you’ll be in that shirt.
It’s probably weird to hold on to it, I know, but it has become a symbol to me. It represents possibility. I represents magical days and nights together.
It represents you.
So I’m going to keep it.
I’ll even wash it every few months so that it smells nice and fresh when you put it on for the first time.
But I’m going to apologize now for the way I stare at you when you wear it.
I’ve just been waiting a long time.