What is Love?

He sits across the livingroom playing Full Tilt Poker on the laptop or checking the finances one more time or Googling rooms in Vegas.
He’s my sweetheart.
Sometimes I forget.
It’s easy to forget when he’s saying we can’t afford that or when he doesn’t wash his whites or when he asks what’s for dinner after I’ve worked all day and I’m tired and exhausted and I want to say WTF, are you kidding me but instead I plop the bologna on the counter and say sandwiches all around.
It’s easy to forget because like in all things, it’s easier to gripe than to praise.
I once heard that it’s easy to forget because love is like that favorite pair of shoes stuffed in the back of the closet. The ones you can’t stand to toss in the trash even though you walked up and down the Las Vegas strip in them so the leather’s worn off the sole and now your feet grate against some grimy white fabric that leaves calluses if you dare to wear them and still you keep them. At first sight you wanted the shoes so BAD, but you walked away because they were too expensive. You walked around the store, trying others on, MAYBE you even left the store, went to PayLess, but you just couldn’t get those shoes out of your mind. So you went back and you bought them, put them on the credit card, even though the card was carrying a balance and finance charges are irresponsible. You wanted the shoes, you NEEDED the shoes, you bought the shoes. And life was great. Until you wore them year after year after year. They’re still favorites, but that intensity of desire, well, not so much. And then another year or two goes by and you kind of forget everything you loved about those shoes. But those shoes were there with you through so much. You wore them the night you drank too much butterscotch schnapps and Bailey’s at the birthday party and that day in Cancun at Carlos and Charlie’s where you danced with the waiter and did Jell-o shots and that time you went to see Mama Mia on Broadway and to the OKC bombing site where you cried for thirty minutes when you saw all those little empty seats next to the big empty seats and you cursed in front of your daughter for the first time calling the men who bombed the Murrow Building sicks sons of bitches. So yeah, the shoes might be a mess, but they’ve been with you through too much, so you toss them in the closet and take them out every once in a while.
I guess I agree with the shoe analogy to a certain degree, but I think that might be a simplification of things.
But right now, while I’m sitting here and hockey’s on TV and he’s saying, man, I think I had a 6, and the poker click, click, clicks on his computer, I remember the truth. I love him. And that makes me happy.

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