When He Looks At Her

“When I look at Judy, I see her at twenty-seven. And I see her at thirty-five. And fifty. And ninety.”

They’re not yet ninety, but when you’re around them, it seems that’s how many years they’ve known one another. It takes about ten seconds to see what they really are. Real. There are only two possible conclusions you make when you see what they have, either you want it or you have it.

She shakes her head when he makes a sandwich on the bare counter, not mindful of the crumbs. She spends an hour telling me about their first trip to Mexico, and how they never left the room “but not in the romantic sense.” The water was bad. Then he chimes in “well, there was that first night.” And our faces turn red, and she rolls her eyes. Then he mentions the way she tucked him into bed those nights, as if to apologize for making her blush.

He tells me about the time she first met his friends, and how they suggested she may not be his “type.” And how he knew that she was no one’s type, which is why he had to have her. “If I didn’t do something to get her to marry me, my entire life would have been a failure.” He was already successful, had made more money than he’d ever dreamed. Without her, it wouldn’t have mattered. The classic story.

She speaks of him in a way that makes you tilt your head and crease your brow. It makes sense and yet, you feel like there’s a mystery about it. It’s from her heart, the bottom of her soul. “I’m not a romantic,” she says, “but he does the laundry. He’s always done the laundry. I just love that.” There’s some magic they’ve found, some intricate simplicity.

And I think he does see her at twenty-seven, and thirty-five and fifty and ninety. I think they know that’s what it’s about, that life is fluid and when you choose someone like they have done, you choose to be along for the ride.