Like most men, Walt O’Conner had no idea what his mate was thinking. Which really isn’t fair. No one knows what anyone is thinking.
“You never say you love me,” Reba said to her fiancé.
“But I do love you.”
“Then say it.”
“I love you.”
“Not like that.”
There was no winning for Walt. Plus, he was in a hurry. Standing in her bedroom he dressed for work, pulling a sweatshirt on and lacing up work boots. He owned a thriving sign shop in Golden Valley. He looked like one of his employees.
“Also,” Reba said, curled under blankets. “You need to be more stylish.”
Walt didn’t see the connection.
“I mean, why aren’t you wearing your chinos, that lavender dress shirt I gave you, and those calfskin brogues?” Reba herself dressed like a hippy. But she liked her men to act their age.
Walt’s sweatshirt was stained with black ink. “I don’t think it’s wise to run an electrostatic screen printer in a dress shirt, do you?”
“Maybe not. But don’t you have employees?”
“About twenty of them.” Walt found his keys, wallet. “And it would be a record if all twenty show up.” He walked over and kissed Reba, who turned away. He liked her like this. Petulant, demanding. He liked her vexing moods. “You know,” he said, stroking her brown arm. “I could be late. I am the owner.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Reba was in the final month of pregnancy. A short woman, she was about as wide as she was tall. “Your baby kept me up all night. She thinks she’s Megan Rapinoe, and my gall bladder is a soccer ball.”
She jerked covers over her shoulders. Walt kissed her frowning forehead, pulled on his tan Carhartt jacket, and headed for the shop.
Did he love her? What was love? Saying it meant nothing. The greeting cards, with their flowers and butterflies, were silly. The poets acted like they knew. But who reads the poets? Driving his truck along Excelsior Boulevard, Walt knew one thing. Other women meant nothing to him.
When he thought of hair, he thought of Reba’s umber-brown, kinky, erratic hair. When he thought of arms, he thought of Reba’s round, brown, potter’s arms. When he thought of lips it was her lips, nose, mouth, cheeks etched slightly, delightfully by some ancient acne. Her moods were simply a further delight. He loved her most when she was most herself.
In his office he picked up the phone. “I just called to say I love you.”
“Oh, shut up. And remember to pick up celery. We’re having stir-fry tonight.”
Walt told her not to worry, to rest well, to be well. He spent the day smiling. To his employees, he looked foolish. But maybe that’s what love is.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com