He asks me today whether he is someone I’d consider marrying.
Imagine. Being married to him. Married to him! Seeing him every day. Kissing his perfect face. Lying beside him, sighing his name. Hearing the shower in the morning or watching him turn the wheel. Expressing freely how the universe of stars crosses his collarbone. Oh, the way my heart stops.
I did not know this about myself, that the insignificant planning I’d causally conducted for some hypothetical wedding before I knew of him—the passing interest in dresses, flowers, centerpieces—does not matter to me. I would not care where I married him, or in what clothes. I’d run away to Cape Town to perform the ceremony. He is all I want to see. The way I love him leaves no room to plan weddings. I am already tired of not being married him.
Maybe I should have known this, that I’m the type to elope. He is only asking a hypothetical question, not seriously considering me for anything. Did it take only this to make me realize? To make me realize who I am?
Had I ever been in love before?