Scene: Mamie is making oatmeal for breakfast. Solly is drinking coffee and holding a file of papers.
Mamie (stirring at the stove): So, Solly, tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and crooked smile, love of my life, what would you like to do for Valentine’s Day?
Solly (thumbing through the file): It’s February? Already?
M (frowning): Those are not the words of a man who’s addressing the love of his life.
S (putting down the file): Ma petite chou, we’ve been together for 40+ years, ever since I first said, “I do.” You look the same to me as you did back when I first met you. Exactly right.
M: Tall, svelte, athletic?
S: The Juliet to my Romeo? Or maybe that was somebody else.
M: Neatly sidestepped. And why are you calling me a dog in French?
S: Ma petite chou? It means my little cabbage.
M (turns toward him): Why are you calling me a cabbage?
S (sipping his coffee): It’s French for sweetheart. A term of endearment, a pet name for the love of my life.
M (turning back to the stove): Okay, Cabbage. Back at you in English. Where were we?
S: Despite the attitude, planning a romantic dinner for the four of us.
M (turning off the oatmeal): The four of us? You, me, and our alter egos? Have you been changing your clothes in a phonebooth? I thought those sudden absences were just errands.
S: No, no, ma chou. They were trips to obtain emergency ingredients for holiday dinners.
M: Like for canned whole berry cranberry when I thought I had the real berries in the freezer, but didn’t.
S (putting down his cup): You know how I love your cooking.
M: Yes, I do. Oatmeal’s ready. And you love holiday dinners.
S: Yes, I do. I’ve said that since the beginning about everything, ma coeur.
M (thoughtfully dishing out oatmeal): And I do, too … Anyway, we invest our hearts in collective holiday meals. The last one was spatchcocked, brined chicken, dressing, cranberry, corn pudding, stuffed acorn squash, and sweet potato and green bean casseroles.
S: And wonderful pies, Dutch apple and pumpkin.
M: Pumpkin pie, by our daughter-in-law. Acorn squash, by our son.
S: And we squashed the national parks game they brought.
M: You squashed it. I couldn’t quite follow it.
S (taking his oatmeal): You’ll squash it next time.
M: Were these the four nuclear members you referred to for a Valentine’s Day dinner?
S: No. They’ll want their own Valentine’s Day. We’ll send them a card.
M: Then who were you referring to going to dinner with, other than moi and toi?
S: Why, le chien et le chat.
M: Do you want some brown sugar blend for the oatmeal? What you said, the dog and the cat in French, right? But dinner out with them?
S: I’ll take some blend. Dog and cat are our newest household additions.
M: We did adopt them recently.
S (stirring blendified oatmeal): They were victims of food insecurity.
M: But I didn’t think we’d take them out to a romantic dinner.
S: They’re still getting used to us.
M: We’ve given them a home.
S: Having experienced it, they fear desertion.
M: But take them out to dinner?
S: This is a holiday about amour: music, candles, heart-shaped lights.
M (prosaically): I do like oatmeal. But do you know of a single restaurant that welcomes dogs and cats together as guests? Other than a kennel?
S: They are our new family.
M (looking at Solly’s hands): Your mind is nearly opaque to me, Solly, but I see a tiny glimmer in its dimly lit tunnels.
S: How so?
M: Perhaps you are asking me in your indirect way to make dinner for us at home.
S: Never would I ask such a thing, ma petite. Good oatmeal, by the way.
M: That file in your hands. Perhaps you’re suggesting takeout.
S (flipping pages): What do you think?
M: Sure. A relaxed dinner at home with enough for leftovers. According to the veterinarian, the dog needs to lose 2 pounds. Regular food for them both.
S: You read my mind, ma chérie.
M: You had this idea to begin with, you rascal.
S (blowing her a kiss): You see how transparent I am?
About the Author: Linda Lemery llemery@gmail.com wishes Evince readers Happy Valentine’s Day. She welcomes reader comments.
