Making Love- Circa Y2K

by Jennifer Donnell

Frank whips his Palm Pilot from his pants and I tell him that all I need is my good memory. 

He's wearing blue jeans, Levi's. He smooths the pockets and spruces up his polo shirt, in azure blue. He always overdoes casual Friday, or so I joke when he seems in the mood for 'funny'.

I wish funny could be every day. 

His brown hair still brushed from the morning, he smiles so big his mustache does as well. I know it's to reassure me that he 'wants me', even if it's in a week or- worst case scenario- two. I want to ask him why not now, right here on the living room floor when Rosie is out for the day. Instead, I suggest Sunday afternoon. I can make grilled cheese sandwiches and we'll eat them on the veranda. I'll take off my tennis skirt and unbutton my button-up shirt once we head to the bedroom. I'll tie my rouge hair in a pony tail, forget about the freckles on my legs and bend over the bed. We will look out the window as it's not every day the roses bloom, I think and say. He shrugs and says he keeps away from roses due to their thorns.

Though it's really his thorns, as work didn't go the way he wanted. The big league clients, didn't. The deal, wasn't. His paycheck had a hole in it, where he fears we might eventually fall in. 

I grab his hand and squeeze it, as if it's worth 10 mil. 
He squeezes back as though it made him feel 20 dollars better. On a day when he was pinching pennies, I take that as a compliment.

He thinks over Sunday afternoon and  counters with Thursday morning.

After-all, he golfs on Wednesdays. He'll be in an especially good mood. He'll shower at the club the night before. We can have wine before bed and wake-up rested. We will make love like the rabbits who eat the rose bush petals, he says, finally a joke.

See, it is a funny day, I remind myself that night and the next, and the day after that.

Only in the darkness of midnight do I wish he wanted me on a boring old Tuesday, in fuzzy socks and a nightie, before the world ends.