By Avril Field-Taylor
We did not meet until my early forties. Working as a research librarian, I never expected to find true love in a hardcover book. He needed my help with a STN (Scientific and Technical Information Network) search. It was a struggle and we were getting nowhere. He sat next to me in front of the computer, suggesting relevant search terms. I would translate them into the search language for the pharmaceutical databases and assess the results. Normally, that would not be enough to spark a romance. But our first encounter felt like our fiftieth. It felt like I had known him for years, not minutes.
My first date with Paul was actually a dog walk. He joined my dog and I for a lovely stroll through the forest. It all sounds very romantic, but I have to come clean—we got quite lost in that forest, and to top it off, it was during a downpour. We may have been soaked to the skin, but our mutual attraction was impervious to rain.
Two months after our first date, we took his parents out for lunch. I met Paul in the doorway of the restaurant. “I’ve told them we’re engaged,” he said. My jaw must have hit the floor. Like all new couples that are hopelessly in love and fascinated with each other, we talked about getting married one day. I just wasn’t expecting that day to come so soon. It was truly spectacular. A round, ideal-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. Just when I think I couldn’t be any more shocked, he refused to go down on one knee; moreover, he didn’t even ask the question! “Here you go. It should fit. I must go to the loo,” he said, heading for the back of the restaurant. Had I just been proposed to? Standing there, staring at the way the brilliant green stone reflected light, I smiled, my heart telling my head that yes, I had been.
We learned by experience that life’s intricate patterns caused fewer migraines if I organized everything. Paul was somewhat involved. His role consisted mostly of writing the checks that made the smoothness and order of his life possible. It still works that way. To his credit, it took him just one week to adjust to the invasion of his solitary life by a high-maintenance woman and her dog. Though he claims that he has never compromised on anything. He has coped with the insanity I endured when I decided to quit my job and go back to school, as well as my abiding love affair for expensive pens and jewelry. I have coped with his view that life is black and white, and the knowledge that his first response to everything will be “what can go wrong with this?”
Twelve years later, we are still that drenched couple, laughing in the rain while searching for our cars—hugging and kissing once we finally stumbled upon them. We still joke about the time I told him I wanted a love letter. “I can’t write love letters,” he said. “I’m a scientist. I can only write scientific reports.” But I’ve never read a scientific report that contained these poetic words: “A sunset is only beautiful if seen by two pairs of eyes.” My heart always skips a beat when I remember those words spoken to me one warm evening during our engagement. It skips a beat at the thought of him coming home. And he never fails to thank me for agreeing to be his wife. We believe it is a privilege to be married to each other. Hand in glove doesn’t even come close.
