Old? Never.

Words flow from my fingertips freely. Always have. I know what I want to say. I say it. Words sometimes wrestle each other as they fight their way around my mouth, each demanding a voice. Thoughts, ideas, but mostly, emotions. Whatever I'm feeling is splashed across my face and flowing from my mouth, skyrocketing from my heart to the back of my teeth, before my mind can stop it. Blurting. Loud.

But not my husband. He is quiet. His emotions hide, tucked into the corners of his heart and mind. Feelings curl up hushed inside, are only given away by the clench of his jaw or curl of his toes. Words are tools, carefully chosen to build an idea and express it logically. Thoughtfully. Firm.

I say.

He shows.

It is Wednesday. Not a holiday or special occasion. It is a regular old Wednesday in March. The night is not as cold as it has been – I feel winter losing its hold – but the wind still whips fighting til the end. It is Wednesday after class and I am tired and cranky and hungry. It is Wednesday and he works early tomorrow and I still have a twenty minute walk ahead of me.

At our door, I take off my high heels so as not to click-clack across the hard wood floor when I walk in and possibly wake him. Our apartment is small and he will be asleep. I use my key and hear the loud clap of the heavy duty, standard issue, New York City lock slap open. Turning the knob, I give a little push...

And see red rose petals leading straight from the foyer to the dining room, where the table has been set, two candles lit, and a red rose placed in a too big vase. In a trance, the door smacks closed behind me as my husband takes me in his arms and kisses my cheek.

“I'm glad you're home,” he says, taking my bag and coat, but not letting go of me, arms firm around my waist. He kisses me again, soft lips all over my face, warm breath down my neck. My mouth would like to participate, but is fixed wide open in shock.

“You shaved,” is the only thing I can think to say.

“Just for you,” he tells me, ocean blue eyes sparkling.

He grabs my hand and leads me to the table, pulling out my chair. He uncovers a filet mignon, corn on the cob heavy with salt and butter, and broccoli. He offers his hand and we say Grace, thanking God for the food and for each other. I am spinning.

“What got into you?” I ask, whole milk coating an empty stomach.

A shrug of his shoulders trumps talking about his feelings, and that's okay. I swallow every analytical idea shooting up my throat, swallow the words that are fighting to ask questions, swallow the emotion that threatens crying. Acoustic guitar plays from the computer, lulling me into the trance set before me. Our shadows bounce off the mirrors on our walls and I see my life... and love it.

He takes our plates to the sink and I lean back in my chair. Watching him. Full.

He leads me past rose petals down the hall to our bedroom. Candles keep the mood soft, another long stemmed rose graces my pillow, and a plate of chocolate covered strawberries sit atop the white bedspread. He went to the bakery.

The soft hands I have loved for six years tenderly take hold of each side of my face. In his kiss, I hear every word he doesn't say. He needs me. He thinks about me all day. He is happy to be my husband. He feels loved and safe with me. He misses me, even when I'm only gone for a few hours, on a Wednesday.

My husband is a man's man, a sports and weather kind of man, a never let 'em see you sweat or cry type of man. And I am worth his time, his vulnerability. I am special.

There is nothing new about rose petals, or dinner, or candlelight, or strawberries, or flowers, or music, or shaving, or saying “I love you”.

But it never gets old, either.