By Emily Sigman
My darling wife, on the eve of our marriage, I’d like to whisper a few words to you. No, no, don’t speak, my little dove. I want the world to know that I will never let you go. Ever.
When we go to sleep, I will hold you until the break of dawn. And when that dawn breaks, I’m still not going to let you go. Then midway through the day, I will surprise you at your cute little desk job, and bring you bonbons and daisies, and skunk eye that guy two cubicles down who ogles you. Then, two hours later I will drop by the house and leave rose petals on your pillows, and also make sure that you aren’t in our bed with the milkman.
Then, my scrumptious little dumpling, I will caress your tender little woman hands and ask roundabout questions to get you to admit that you think your boss is attractive. You’ll insist that you don’t, and I’ll get mad and start crying, and I won’t stop until you’ve assured me that I’m your one and only and also that you still think I’m manly.
We’ll crawl in bed later, and I’ll make sweet love to you while you lay there, probably thinking about your personal trainer or Hans, the bag boy at Duane Reed. And when we’ve finished, you’ll ask me if I’ve noticed that the milkman has stopped leaving milk in our box, and I’ll pretend to have already fallen asleep to avoid answering the question.
Darling, I can’t wait to grow old with you. Because then you’ll be so senile you won’t remember your past boyfriends, and so decrepit that nobody could possibly want to take you away from me, and so feeble that even if they did, you’d be practically immobile anyway.
Now, how about crawling under these red satin sheets with me, hmm?
…Honey?
