do it on the front stoop.

do it on the front stoop

I have two recurring fantasies.

The first involves wood floors, clean white socks, and the song Isn't she lovely. He's wearing boxer briefs and I'm swimming in his oversized Hanes t-shirt, a relic from his college days that's about one wash away from complete disintegration. We both have the white socks on. Ankle socks to be exact.

He sings along to the stereo and we dance--slipping and sliding, unleashing the inner eight-year-olds who know how to turn any wood floor into a veritable slip-and-slide wonderland.

The second is this.

I want to find him on the doorstep. Unexpected. I want to turn the corner after a long day, a long month, a long year and find him half-smiling with a bouquet of flowers. He'll be sitting there. And when he sees me, he'll stand. At first I won't understand. Who is this man I knew a million lifetimes ago? I'll climb the steps and he'll step aside. I'll put the key in the door and pause. I'll feel his breath on my neck. And his silence will fill me, satiate me. I'll push the door open and he'll follow in step. And we'll begin our life together, as we've always known we would.

That's what I want. To find the man I dream of sitting on my front stoop. Waiting.

So my dearest, darling-est, dreamiest husband-to-be, know this...

don't take me to the opera. or the rainbow room. don't make it a carriage ride through central park or a weekend getaway. i'm not even sure i need you to get on one knee. but do it on the door step. on the front stoop. sitting next to me. on the same level. turn to me and ask me to be your best friend, your lover, your absolute equal. so that then we can go inside and begin our life together, as we've always known we should.

That being said, you sure as hell better ask my father first. I believe in chivalry. And I was raised in the South.