Memory lane

Shabbat plopped down beside me on the couch, holding an open photo album. He pointed to a picture of the two of us sitting together on a park bench. “Remember our first date?” he asked.

“‘First date’?” I snatched the album away and flipped back a few pages. “We’d been going out for almost a year by then.”

“Were we? You weren’t that into me in the beginning,” Shabbat said frankly. “You were always ditching me for anyone more interesting. Not taking me seriously.”

“Well, you were really high-maintenance. Not to mention freakishly commitment-oriented.”

“So I have high expectations. I’m not so hard to live with, am I?”

Before I could really get the fight going, I noticed a picture of one of our more sublime evenings. “You’re an acquired taste,” I conceded. And quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear, “Acquired and addictive.”

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