I was standing at a pinball machine with a friend one Saturday afternoon after lunch, the first weekend of sophomore year in college. He and I had shared many ideas, like his plan to capture the main college library, and many discussions of books, movies, and history the year before over cigarettes and coffee. But he didn’t really enjoy pinball, so the fact that we were in that place at that time was unusual—and, it turned out, fortuitous.

When it was my turn to play, I concentrated on the machine, hoping to learn its ins and outs. When my friend played, I alternated between watching him struggle and looking around, trying to check out the dorm still new to me—and looking at the young ladies.

During one of his turns, two of these women came towards us on the way back from lunch. They were both short, one blond, the other with long, rich brown hair. Their faces broke into smiles as they saw my friend and greeted him. (The three had lived in the same dorm the prior year; this year they were in mine.) He introduced us, and we exchanged pleasantries before they continued to their room. 

The next morning, two roommates and I left our room for Sunday brunch. Just steps away, another door on the opposite wall opened and out walked the same two young women. My roommates swooped in (as Mrs. P has often described the scene: “’Skirts!’” they thought, and pounced”). I trailed behind. The ladies agreed to have brunch with us.

My roommates behaved like . . . well, sophomores. I tried to be cool. That was always a challenge for me, but apparently this particular feeble attempt worked. (My introduction to the salutary effects of nonaction, perhaps.) That brown-headed one with the sparkling eyes and wide smile thought I was the interesting one. Or so she later claimed. Though she did go out with one of my roommates first. On the other hand, I went out with hers.

Over the course of the first semester, though, those buds of relationships never bloomed while that dark-haired, dark-eyed, sexy Cuban lady and I became close friends. The path from friendship to relationship was a strangely twisting and turning one, all of the twists and turns caused by my inability to recognize the inevitability—the mandate of the universe—of our being together. Eventually, though, dawn broke over Marblehead. We started going out the following fall.  

Mrs. P and I have been together, then, for thirty-five years. She has comforted and humored me; reassured and cajoled me; loved and honored me; nagged me (I deserved it, dear!); taught me; yes, annoyed me; suffered me; teased me; corrected me; protected me; guided me; caressed me; held me. She has loved me, unaccountably, and blessed me by allowing me to love her.

I cannot imagine—I do not wish to imagine—what my life would have been without her.  Thank you, Babe. 

Words © AtHome Pilgrim.

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