It's me, Love.
I don't blame you for the way you avoid eye contact or your cool, guarded civility around me.
I've treated you like a jilted lover. I understand your reserve.
Can I just speak two words? Basketball. Season.
We go through this every year, and it never gets easier on either of us; does it?
I've seen the cobwebs back behind your bookcases, mysterious stains on the office carpet, and the spoonful of grape jelly someone inexplicably flipped up onto your dining room ceiling.
I've noticed a dark splatter of uncertain origin on the upstairs wall, lint from a million spins of the toilet paper rolls collecting on bathroom surfaces, and finger prints around every light switch, door knob, and hand rail within your walls.
I just couldn't do a thing about it.
Now, that it has reached its end.
Surely you noticed my excitement at the end of the last reverberation of the last buzzer at the last second of the last game? I raced home, peered through your streaked front glass door, caressed your dusty bannister, and got . . . down . . . on . . . my . . . knees and kissed your dull wood floors.
I do love the games, the adrenalin, the fun, the excitement. But I always miss you, and you . . . well, you show the full extent of my distraction . . . neglect . . . abandonment.
But I've got plans for us! Have you seen the fabrics for the bedroom?
Have I mentioned the redo of the half-bathroom?
Have you heard of Oil Rubbed Bronze spray paint to spruce up your old mirrors?
I'll make it up to you. I promise I will! We'll fall in love all over again. We'll be so happy together.
Until next . . .