Free The Anniversary Gift (Re-Connections) by Elle Dawson Page B

I’ve learned that expectation can cause sadness; no man can read our minds. I’ve fallen into that trap too often, and pull back my enthusiasm just a bit.
    Walking into the restaurant, my eyes search the tables for my man. He isn’t here; at least I don’t see him and glance down at my watch. Five till six; still a little early. I follow the host to our waiting table.
    Twenty minutes later, still sipping on wine, still sitting alone, my phone flashes with an “ on my way ” message that makes me grind my teeth. I hate being late, am usually early and Ethan knows how I feel about punctuality, we’ve argued about it enough at least.  I try to be sympathetic to his lateness and focus on the many positive things I love about him.
    Ten minutes later, then fifteen, twenty…I find myself standing and heading toward the door. I’m so mad. Like the song says, “I shaved my legs for this,” only to be stood up by my chronically late husband, who was once again “lost in the details” of his work. If the past can predict the future, he’ll not be home for hours. Once ten minutes late, he’s hours late; it’s always the same.
    Instead of being mad, I find myself simply sad, sad that I don’t matter enough for him to show up on time. Intellectually, I know this isn’t about me. He is late for everything; it is a running joke in his family. We have argued enough about it, how selfish I feel his lack of punctuality is, how disrespectful it is to others. It doesn’t change.
    Sad. And ready to go, home to a bath and then bed. My appetite is gone, for food and the sex I felt sure that was to follow. I push the door outward and into my husband. The metal catches him square in the forehead, and he bounces backwards in surprise, clasping his forehead while trying to stay on his feet.
    I stare at him, feeling my anger and sadness swell and then fade at his comical expression .
    “Don’t leave . I’m so sorry that I’m late,” he says and I want to stay mad but am simply unable to do so with the red mark on his face.
    “No need to beat a dead horse ; you know how I feel about being on time,” I reply. “I’m not angry, just sad and tired and I want to go home.”
    I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, because I really do love this man, and then turn to the lot where I had parked.
    He pulls me around, wraps his arms around me and lifts his hands into my hair, gently pulling my head back to look at him. “I’m sorry, Kate, I truly am. I don’t know why I become so thoughtless, so distracted. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day long, to eating dinner with you and then making love with you. I daydreamed so much that I simply lost track of time. Again.”
    I’m melting , and my mind is whirling with what to do. Forgive and forget? Or create consequences?
    “ Forgive him, you’re not his mother,” says my Inner Goddess.
    I close my ears to the tirade I know the Bitch is about to begin.
    “I tell you what. I really don’t want to go back inside, but I want dinner and I desperately want you inside of me.”
    His pupils dilate further, eclipsing the iris es of his eyes, and I know I have his attention.
    “ If you will pick up take-out, a bottle of wine and meet me back home in 30 minutes sharp…our date is still on.”
    “Well then, let’s synchronize our watches,” he says, lifting my wrist and matching my time to the clock on his phone. “On your mark, set, go!” He bounds away back toward his truck, leaving me standing there watching his retreating back. The slam of the door and the squeal of his tires make me laugh and I turn away to walk more slowly to the SUV, wishing I had called to him to be safe.
    Back home, I decide to leave my dress on but gather as many candles as I can find, turning the lights down low, setting the scene to seductive.
    With four minutes to spare, I see headlights through the windows and melt with absolute delight. I open the door, and welcome my beaming husband with a