My Prince

I have a photograph. We’re both sitting in an armchair made for one. I’m wearing denim overalls and a light blue t-shirt. My long hair is swept up loosely with a clip, and my head is thrown back in delighted laughter.

He is looking at the camera. His hair is just long enough to be in a perpetual state of unruliness, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. He’s wearing . . .

Well, let me start over.

My knight in shining armor came riding into my life on his valiant steed. He was really just a tousle-headed college boy in levi corduroys on a ten-speed bike. But he was mine. We’d been engaged for a few months, but hadn’t told anyone yet. We had our reasons. In retrospect, they are mostly silly and romantic, but we had them. One evening my doorbell rang. He was standing there, his eyes full of merriment, and he said, “I’ve come courting.”

I laughed at him. In fact, I couldn’t stop laughing. But he wasn’t offended. That’s exactly the response he’d anticipated. He and his dorm buddies had pooled their resources and decked him out in quite the interesting finery: an orange and blue plaid flannel shirt, brown and white checked pants, a hot pink tie with neon colored flowers, and a brown blazer. Courting duds.

So we put on some music and danced. We talked and laughed. My roommate snapped some pictures. I’m so glad.

He stayed as long as was proper. Then he went to the window, opened it, and called to his bicycle, “Mighty Bones! Prepare to ride!” And he left. Through the door, not the window. I watched him ride away, feeling loved, happy, courted.

It’s such a great memory. And to think, he’s still my prince.