A story told to me by a small box of conversation ♥s:
At first, flirtation. Telegraphic. She semaphores desire with the cilia of her gaze:
U R A QT
U R A STAR
U R KING
He decodes slowly, painfully. Every time is the first time. Every woman is like learning a new language. They might all have a common root, but it's like Urdic, or High Babylonian or something - remote and exotic and alien and familiar. He responds tentatively, exploring possession of her:
YOU & ME
ONE KISS
She, charmed halfway but not convinced, temporizes:
WHIZ KID
LOVER BOY
He, alarmed by her mercurial accolades:
GO GIRL
She flips her hair and walks away. She is too sexy and:
TRES CHIC
He, despondent, crushed by the enormity of his miscalculation:
ANGEL
She takes him back:
MY MAN
She makes the rules:
PAGE ME
WRITE ME
FAX ME
BE TRUE
He accepts this, though he will not always do these things. And so they develop a shared language:
MY LOVE
DEAR ONE
It is:
REAL LOVE
Maybe not:
FOR YOU
But it is for them. All the way up to their 60th wedding anniversary, where they murmur to each other:
HOW NICE
SMILE
THANK YOU
LET'S KISS
And they do. And do you really think that kiss isn't as sweet as the first?
I bet it's sweeter.
Footnote: I refuse to participate in whatever lunacy led to LET'S READ and BOOK CLUB being printed on two of the candy hearts (one yellow, one pink) in my box of Necco Sweetheats. Quelle ridicule.