We sat together on the sofa, talking about the wedding.
She laughed when I admitted that I had nearly forgotten my vows.
“You were nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“At sixty-one?”
“Especially at sixty-one. At seventeen, I thought I knew everything. Now I know enough to be frightened.”
She rested her head on my shoulder.
For a while, we listened to the music.
Then I helped her to her feet, and we walked slowly toward the bedroom.
I was nervous, though I tried not to show it.
We had kissed before. We had held hands, embraced, and shared the sort of affection that had once seemed so ordinary to me.
But this was different.
We were no longer two lonely people meeting for coffee.
We were husband and wife.
I wanted her to feel beautiful. I wanted her to feel wanted. Most of all, I wanted her to know that she never had to pretend to be someone else around me.
