her hotel, the Biltmore, was approximately two blocks away from the train station. I pointed out that if we drove around the block three times, that would make a total of six blocks, whichâif you took into account potential traffic or bad weatherâcould make for a bonus round of ten, maybe even twelve minutes together. Preempted, she agreed.
The next day, Anne kissed me when I dropped her off. She said she thought it was a very intimate gesture, dropping someone off at a train station, that it made her feel old-fashioned. I agreed, and added that dropping someone off at a train station without ever having slept with them made it feel incredibly old-fashioned indeed. She said she found me arrestingly crude, but not inconsequential. We agreed to see each other again whenshe returned to Providence. I kissed her good-bye on the hand, just to spite her. It was November. By August, we were married.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢
If you were to succeed in prolonging the deliriously ecstatic puppy-dog love stage of the first months of courtship throughout the entire relationship itselfâthrough marriage, unto deathâwould this same love, so celebrated, so sought after, break down in utter incredulity at the duration of its own existence?
I no longer love her. But oh, how I loved her. We were partners in crime when we met in America. We had accents. Tailored clothes. Anne wore nothing but stilettos for a year, and I took to wearing an American black-and-gold flag as a scarf. We drank heady red wine and threw Yorkshire pudding dinners on the weekends. We licked coke off of menthol cigarettes. We managed near penetration in the Absolute Quiet section of the Rockefeller Library. I made friends with lacrosse players at Brown University just to annoy her, and she did the same with select members of the crew team. Despite her physique, I made friends more easily than Anne did because my charm was more accessible. We spent a great deal of time apart, but, in our own way, remained inseparable.
I asked Anne to marry me five months into our relationship. I think I did it more for the drama of the gesture than for the appeal of marriage itself. I didnât want to reach a point in our relationship where we turned to each other, side by side in our usual places on some couch, and burped, âDonât you think itâs about time we get married?â during the commercial break of our favorite program. Being a romantic, I have a certain respect for the idea of the old-fashioned, somewhat spontaneous (albeit highly awaited) marriage proposal, which I pulled off with finesse, if I do say so myself.
I took out a personal ad in the Providence Phoenix , an offbeat leftist publication published in the downtown warehouse district. It read thus: Anne-Laure: Will you marry me? Richard H.
Whether we were at my apartment or hers, Anne had a charming habit of reading the personal ads in any publication put before her. The New Yorker ,the New York Times , Cosmo , Glamour , Star âno matter the quality of the periodical in question, she always read the personals before anything else.
I paid for and published the advert for the April 5 edition, 1995. Because she derives a certain pleasure from being withholding, to this day, Anne still hasnât told me when she saw it, but on May 21, I found an ad in the classifieds section that showed one of Anneâs illustrated donkeys wearing a veiled tiara. Across the tiara was written the word yes .
We got married in Cape Cod at the same friendâs house where we would spend the following summer with Anne skimming pregnancy books and me painting The Blue Bear . Anne wore the dress sheâd bought for her debutante ball in Paris with sparkle jelly flats. We got drunk and had a barbecue. For dessert, we ate homemade Rice Krispies treats under blankets on the beach.
It was a lovely little party. Simple. Silly. Us. We went to bed at dawn in a room with white floorboards. I held
The next day, Anne kissed me when I dropped her off. She said she thought it was a very intimate gesture, dropping someone off at a train station, that it made her feel old-fashioned. I agreed, and added that dropping someone off at a train station without ever having slept with them made it feel incredibly old-fashioned indeed. She said she found me arrestingly crude, but not inconsequential. We agreed to see each other again whenshe returned to Providence. I kissed her good-bye on the hand, just to spite her. It was November. By August, we were married.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢
If you were to succeed in prolonging the deliriously ecstatic puppy-dog love stage of the first months of courtship throughout the entire relationship itselfâthrough marriage, unto deathâwould this same love, so celebrated, so sought after, break down in utter incredulity at the duration of its own existence?
I no longer love her. But oh, how I loved her. We were partners in crime when we met in America. We had accents. Tailored clothes. Anne wore nothing but stilettos for a year, and I took to wearing an American black-and-gold flag as a scarf. We drank heady red wine and threw Yorkshire pudding dinners on the weekends. We licked coke off of menthol cigarettes. We managed near penetration in the Absolute Quiet section of the Rockefeller Library. I made friends with lacrosse players at Brown University just to annoy her, and she did the same with select members of the crew team. Despite her physique, I made friends more easily than Anne did because my charm was more accessible. We spent a great deal of time apart, but, in our own way, remained inseparable.
I asked Anne to marry me five months into our relationship. I think I did it more for the drama of the gesture than for the appeal of marriage itself. I didnât want to reach a point in our relationship where we turned to each other, side by side in our usual places on some couch, and burped, âDonât you think itâs about time we get married?â during the commercial break of our favorite program. Being a romantic, I have a certain respect for the idea of the old-fashioned, somewhat spontaneous (albeit highly awaited) marriage proposal, which I pulled off with finesse, if I do say so myself.
I took out a personal ad in the Providence Phoenix , an offbeat leftist publication published in the downtown warehouse district. It read thus: Anne-Laure: Will you marry me? Richard H.
Whether we were at my apartment or hers, Anne had a charming habit of reading the personal ads in any publication put before her. The New Yorker ,the New York Times , Cosmo , Glamour , Star âno matter the quality of the periodical in question, she always read the personals before anything else.
I paid for and published the advert for the April 5 edition, 1995. Because she derives a certain pleasure from being withholding, to this day, Anne still hasnât told me when she saw it, but on May 21, I found an ad in the classifieds section that showed one of Anneâs illustrated donkeys wearing a veiled tiara. Across the tiara was written the word yes .
We got married in Cape Cod at the same friendâs house where we would spend the following summer with Anne skimming pregnancy books and me painting The Blue Bear . Anne wore the dress sheâd bought for her debutante ball in Paris with sparkle jelly flats. We got drunk and had a barbecue. For dessert, we ate homemade Rice Krispies treats under blankets on the beach.
It was a lovely little party. Simple. Silly. Us. We went to bed at dawn in a room with white floorboards. I held
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