Strange love

It was the evening before St. Valentine’s Day, and I was watching the two of them. The elderly man, a stranger to me, was kneeling and seemed oblivious to my watch. It was as if in that moment nothing else existed in this world, nothing else mattered.

His gaze and his presence showed a mixture of certainty and tenderness that only comes with an intimate knowledge spanning years. After pausing for a careful look, he said he knew exactly what would make it all right again. He spoke softly and slowly about the times past and how things were different now. But how in this digital disposable age, there still existed things truly beautiful and resilient enough that were worth holding on to. That after nearly two decades, nothing had changed, and that he would do everything possible to make sure it was all perfect for many many years to come.

And then, without saying another word, he began touching. Caressing. Running his fingers. Tenderly, with care and precision. Expertly. Knowing each part, each crevice with familiarity and certainty. It was as if the time had stopped. He then stood up and, still with the same admiring look on his face, started gently brushing the back with his fingertips as if that would get rid of some dust or, perhaps, his own nostalgia. He then embraced with an unexpected force and pushed until they were both up against the wall. And, suddenly, released.

He sighed with relief, turned to me with a smile and said, “That’s it. Your fridge is fixed.” Love really is all around us.

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