Tuesday, March 15, 2011 |
It was the best date of my life. And it was the worst. I went weak in the knees when I opened the door. Our eyes spoke to each other before a word was said. Blind dates were not supposed to be this divine. For the entire evening, late into the night and into the early morning we fell more deeply into each other. The stars, the moon, the soft air caressed us as we embraced in a slow, close waltz. The champagne sparkled, roses scented the air. The whole world seemed to recognize the magic of our meeting. Every romantic cliché, but for us so real.
Of course, we got married. To our deep, unspoken regret. Nothing in our married lives has come close to that first intoxicating night. We could not look at each other without disappointment shadowing our eyes. Oh, we tried, but it was never the same. Guess that's the problem with perfection. Would it have been better to have moved on, married others, lived with their imperfections? Maybe some things are best left in that airy space, a solitary reverie to e savoured in private moments. Never touched by the scrapes and gratings of the everyday. We might have been each others perfection for life.