I pick her up at the train station and we walk a mile in slightly blighted urbana to Division Street. Once we hit turn that corner, we hurry so I feel less of a tinge of guilt about missing work (wherein I had to report in a few hours anyway). We go to Milk & Honey, a somewhat trendy (and posh) cafe where I treat my day-date to some homemade granola.
She still insists it’s the best granola she’s ever tasted.
I’m so nervous, I don’t know what to say. She doesn’t speak much, either. And I constantly scare her by looking at my watch. Just so self-conscious.
But what made me realize that our time together (our first time in proximity in years) would last for a long period of time was when we were walking in the surrounding neighborhood, to take in that brisk autumn day and it’s colors.
As I’m noting the architecture and history of my neighborhood, she grabs my arm and pulls it. She is utterly delighted by a tree. I forget the specific tree, but I remember how she expressed her delight. She called me by my full name. My. Full. Name.
No one knows my full name but my inner family, maybe some friends who tease me about my name (for privacy issues, I’ll only note now that it has some roots in horror movies and the like). But we haven’t seen each other in years. We’ve only recently been emailing each other.
But I knew, I just knew, she felt for me. Big time. And that’s good. Because I certainly felt for her. Big time.
This morning, as a sort of anniversary, we went back to Milk & Honey. I love my wife.