My husband, David, known better as “Dave,” got home today after a long business trip to a bunch of foreign countries he’d never been to before.
One night, leaving a restaurant in Cape Town, South Africa, a picture being displayed by a street vendor on a busy street caught his eye. Since he hates shopping, this picture must have been very special. His eyes would have certainly passed right over it, except for one salient detail. That this detail didn’t involve a Victoria’s Secret model or American football makes it even more amazing.
Spotting our names together on this picture felt like a weird dream, he said. I refused to believe him, because this is the kind of prank he pulls on me all of the time. It’s part of our relationship’s shtick: him, the straight-faced wiseacre; me, the spacey blonde.
Over the years the spaciness and blondness have dissipated. I’ve wizened. So I did just as any wife of more than two decades would: I made this poor jetlagged man fight for my gullibility.
When he claimed the piece was the only example offered by the vendor, not an example, I merely rolled my eyes. Ten full minutes of strenuous convincing later, I finally accepted he was telling the truth.
Why the change? Because I couldn’t help but notice that this picture is butt ugl- … um, I mean… not exactly my taste. I figured he knew that I’d kill him if he went to such extremes as to personalize, pay for, and haul something so… so…. butt ugl… um… not exactly my taste, all the way home from South Africa to South Carolina for the sake of fleecing me.
Is that not weird and kind of cool? Both that the picture was there and that he spotted it? What do you think about coincidences?
Today, I’m believing in them.
(If you’re wondering what is written under each of our names, I’ll tell you soon. I don’t know what I think of it yet.)