Many moons ago a woman, on a whim, walked into a room. Our gazes met and we both took off, hands locked, spiraling through the universe. Our first date was chockful of inspired gazes, and laughter from utterances genuinely humorous. Our connection was palpable, our revelations copious. The night ended with her hugging me and uttering the words, “Hugs are great.” I never heard anything more charming than her lovely tenor advocating for what she believed was an underappreciated gesture.
For our second date, I wanted to impress her, so I took her to the Black Bass Inn, a 18th-century structure off the Delaware. We were escorted to a table-for-two in the corner. Upon sitting, simultaneously, we decided the table, however small, marked an unbearable chasm. We swung our chairs such that our hands and elbows touched, our gazes nearer, our lips within range. She handed me her menu and said, “Order for me.” We each had fancy sturgeon.
With each sip of wine and morsel of food, we fell deeper and deeper in love. We uttered words so profound, they continue to echo in our ears thirty-one years later. By night’s end, we rose from our chairs understanding we would journey through life together. I didn’t ask her if she voted for George Bush, Bill Clinton, or Ross Perot. She didn’t ask for my view on abortion. I wasn’t curious about where she stood on states’ rights versus federal or what were or weren’t justifications for war. The love we were creating transcended any and all answers to questions with political concerns. We learned the answers to such questions organically and over time, for we were people, individuals with unique sensibilities, not establishment avatars for political parties. Our allegiance was and continues to be to one another, thus no fly ever dared spoil our ointment.
Michael's Corner 
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