I was late for our first date. You remember.
Back then, I was never late. I hated being late. I believed that showing up anything but on time showed disrespect, and I was especially mortified to have flubbed up on such a rare occasion as a first date. But, there I was. I’d gone to the wrong theater, you see, and as I finally got to the top of the escalator at the correct location and saw you standing there outside the ticket booth, alone, I knew I’d be starting this romance down a point.
We saw “Beloved,” the movie based on the book we’d both read and liked. It wasn’t so good. By the end of it, as I recall, you’d managed to make me feel not so bad for keeping you waiting. Little did you know it would be the first in a long line of disappointments.
As I write this, I have the anniversary card my father sent us today sitting on the table next to me. It’s addressed to “Leah and Mark Palmberg.” He’s an old dog, and even after four years, you’re still a new trick. Thank you for abiding him. And me. And know that I was late that day only because my mind was flush and confused with the excitement of being with you, a feeling I still get from time to time. Maybe not as viscerally as on that first date, but more deeply now, more thoroughly.
I’m late all the time now. Almost every day, at least once. It still bothers me, as you know, but I’m learning to embrace my tardiness. My canine constitution is not yet so inflexible as my dad’s (though you’re convinced I’m destined to be his eventual replacement). Sometimes I think you make us late on purpose as payback for my transgression those nine years ago, and I smile when I think back to the look on your face when I finally made my appearance. I’m still down that point, after a wedding and a little girl and everything else we’ve shared. Maybe I always will be. But I’m fine with it. There’s no one else to whom I’d rather owe that debt.
Yours,
-m