Written by Rebekah Postupak
“You busy Saturday?” he asked, studying the floor.
“I just got errands, and I guess laundry,” she said.
“Wanna get married?”
Neither of them breathed for a long moment. And then:
“How long will it take?” she asked.
“It’s quick,” he said, daring to look across the table at her glinting dark eyes.
“Okay then,” she said. “Just so it doesn’t take too long. I got a lot of running around to do.”
They grinned at each other in the way that eventually over the years grew as comfy and familiar to them as his mahogany easy chair and her Dutch apple pie. The comfy grins saw them through childbirth and child death, new jobs and lost jobs, and from a suburban house to a plain apartment. The years nibbled away at their bones and teeth and hid dentured grins behind whiskers and chins until no eyes but theirs could see the grins.
“Guess that does it for me,” he said one day, his voice raspier than he’d remembered it being.
“Yeah? Me too, just about,” she said. “One or two things to finish up first.”
“I love you forever,” he said. He reached a thin hand across the bed and put his fingers lightly on her fragile grin, his eyes fixed on hers until the last possible moment.
“You were right,” she whispered as his hand fell away. “That didn’t take long at all.”