We write, can’t help it, can’t fight it. But who reads?
I hopped the bus to work on a recent rainy morning, and was delighted to find five of my fellow passengers with novels under their noses. How many were busy with their cell phones or Blackberrys? Just one! And, wouldn’t you know it, of all the bleary faces on the bus, hers wore the only frown.
I was settled snugly in the living room couch, with all I needed for a cozy TV supper ready on my lap. All that was missing was a dash of the spicy sauce my hubby had just discovered in the fridge door.
“Can I try some?” I called from the couch.
“It might be too spicy for you,” he warned.
“I’ll just take a bit then!”
He came around the corner on a mission, bottle in hand. Now, about my husband. This is a man who comes alive in the mountains, a man at home in the wilderness, whose early glory days were spent living happily in a frigid backyard shed at Whistler. This is a man whose Viking legs and beard could send a whole legion of Le Cirque waiters crying to their mammys.
This very same man bent carefully over my plate, with brows furrowed in quiet concentration, to deposit just the right amount of spicy sauce next to his wife’s mashed potatoes. I watched him with a secret smile as he rocked the bottle gently and kept his eye on the glass mouth, so he could pull back quickly when he had to. This is a man who can drive a golf ball well over 300 yards. And this is a man who can love so plainly… so plainly my nose started tingling well before the hot pepper kick ever touched my tongue.