Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What Is This Thing Called Love?
Love is the great mystery.
Why does an otherwise intelligent woman, a beautiful woman, a talented woman, agree to spend a lifetime with a man who scratches, breaks wind, indulges in firearms, comes home late reeking of vodka and smoke, hangs out with underemployed artists and musicians, listens to scratchy songs about heart attacks and blood money, buys guitars, reads books about bad people doing bad things and worse, writes books about bad people doing bad things, a man who can't remember a conversation they had just this morning, a man who will do anything to avoid finishing this novel, why oh why does that woman, who could have had a dozen other infinitely better men, why does she stay married to him for more than a quarter century?
I don't have a clue. But I'm happy she does.
Happy Valentine's Day, Baby. I'd be nothing without you.