We slow dance in the room next to the kitchen. “Paris 2004” by Peter, Bjorn, and John arches around us and we kiss. The tension of the week drops away. The work of the week is done.
“Ewww!”
Our four oldest children feign faints onto the tiled floor, still holding the dainty triangles of Party Pizzas baked for them ten minutes earlier. The cheap cheese never quite melts, making the pizzas look like they were decorated by Jackson Pollack.
Joel, however, responds by running to our legs and throwing his arms around them. He squeezes and runs back to his cold pizza.
We kiss again, eyes closed, and are startled by Aidan, throwing her arms around us. “I love you guys!” she says as she returns to her plate.
Sam remains on the floor, Ryley has risen, Tommy has disappeared to another room. The pizzas are nearly gone. Beatrix is trapped in her high chair, bibbed and safe and sauce-smeared. Aidan pours more milk.
The music.
While I’m sleeping,
You paint a ring on my finger with your black marker-pen.
I’m all about you, you’re all about me,
We’re all about each other.
If there are 52 Friday nights in one year, and we’ve been together for more than 12 years, we’ve had around 650 Friday nights together. Dates of dinners and movies, drives up dark mountain roads, snowy nights in, cooking for each other, sharing a beer and the last of the ice cream, rehearsing our wedding, seeing what’s on TV, finding nothing, early to bed, late to rise, tired and week-weary solace in the sundown, together and We Made It.
A son was born on a Friday and I nursed him that night, in a hospital room while couples outside kissed for the first time. They ran through the January-snapped theater parking lot, cold and with gloved hands-held tight. There was a movie and they leaned into each other to whisper comments. They caught each other’s eyes in a sudden bright flicker on the big white screen and they knew.
