Just Call Me Oblivious.
"Bill," he says in a dark room: "Bill" beside my ear. The ceiling blinks, and I feel his fingers slide between mine. "Bill, I know what song I want at our wedding."
I can't move. I try not to breathe.
"I think it's from Shrek."
I suppose one shouldn't laugh during such serious moments, but really--.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "first dance" song prospect (with the lesser Pride and Prejudice thrown in for good measure):
Click to viewAhahaha!
This man is remarkable. I am not even sure I'd be able to get through this without cracking up, considering its introduction, but I'm open to beginning our life together with a smile.
He has plenty of justifications. Like me, he does his confessing in bed. Last evening, he asked me to listen while he sorted his thoughts--something we sometimes take turns doing when one of us is battling through an emotion. It's easier with the lights off or the candles lit. It's easier when someone is touching you but not watching you. It's easier under covers.
"I want you to know that I lied to you," he said. I wanted to ask, desperately, but it was my turn to listen. "I want you to know that I have loved you from the very first day Colm introduced us--the very first day, when he wouldn't let go of your hand and spent half our supper kissing your knuckles and bragging about your degree." A breath. "I know you think he wanted me that evening, when he was drunk--and that you went home jealous and disgusted. But he didn't come to my room to make his move. He came to tell me--" and here he stopped, rolled over, and pressed his lips against my ribcage.
"He came to tell me that he saw me staring, and that you were not mine."
But I am, now. I am now. Completely.