It is true love because I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day. Even when there’s no one here but him. And because I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packer [game.] Even though I am philosophically opposed to football, and because when he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street, I always hope he’s dead.
It’s true love because if he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn’t get out of bed. He wouldn’t tell me he told me, and because he is willing to wear unironed undershorts. Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically oppsed to ironing, and because if his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save, he says he’d save me.
It’s true love because when he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the painters and exterminators and the baby who was getting the chicken pox, he understood why I hated him. And because when I said that playing the stock market was juvenile and irresponsible and then the stock I wouldn’t let him buy went up twenty-six points, I understood why he hated me. And because despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion. We still feel something we can call true love.
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