I wanna make you smile,
I'll miss you, kiss you,
So let me do the dishes in our kitchen sink,
whenever you're sad.
Carry you around when your arthritis is bad.
Oh, all i wanna do, is grow old with you.
I'll get your medicine when your tummy aches,
Build you a fire if the furnace breaks.
Oh, it could be so nice, growin' old with you.
Give you my coat when you are cold,
need you, feed you.
I'll even let you hold the remote control.
put you to bed when you've had too much to drink.
Oh I could be the man who grows old with you.
I wanna grow old with you...
--------------------
Her smile was kind of bitter, kind of sad. The candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows on the crumbling walls. Her fingers were knotted together, and she glanced down at them, hesitating, procrastinating. She chewed her lip absentmindedly, a shy smile spreading across her face as she glanced up under thick lashes. A stray curl of her hair fell into her face, just to the left of a tiny freckle next to her left eye.
He never used to like girls with freckles. Was it weird now that now he suddenly had imprinted that freckle upon his mind, upon his memory, upon his heart?
He resisted the urge to brush back her hair, to feel the softness of her skin against his fingertips.
"I don't know," she confessed, her voice a little timid, a little shy. "I think true love isn't so much..flowers, and candy, and..and..Hallmark cards." She gestured with her hands, trying to emphasize the point. She raised her chin a little and gave him an embarrassed smile. She had a dimple in her right cheek. Did he ever notice she had that dimple? Why hadn't he noticed it before?
Someone else entered the tiny, Italian restaurant behind them but he didn't turn around. Her eyes were green. Green eyes were rarer then freckles.
Which she had. Next to her left eye.
And a dimple. In her cheek. The right one.
She was talking again. Focus.
"..I think love is more..not finding that perfect person, but loving a person for their imperfections. It's about..sharing the remote control."
What?
"It's about...what?"
Her smile widened. Her flush deepened. The dimple was back again. Damn that dimple.
"Have you ever seen 'The Wedding Singer,' with Adam Sandler?" she asked. "He sings this song..it's like.." She paused.
"Yeah?"
She hesitated one more moment, then stopped, shaking her head. "No, never mind, it's stupid."
"No, tell me..c'mon, I won't laugh."
"Yes, you will. It's stupid, it's just a song he sings.. you asked me what I thought love was and well..that song is it."
He hesitated, his crooked smile deepening. "Sing it for me."
She burst out laughing, an infectious giggle that spilled out of her. A feeling of joy swooped in his stomach; he had to clench his fists to keep himself from wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close, close. His nails dug into his flesh, and he cracked a smile because he didn't want her to think anything was wrong. He had to look away, shocked at his body's violent reaction to her laughter. He glanced down at the wooden table. There was a long burn on the left side of it.
Left. She had a freckle near her left eye.
Focus.
It was dark in the restaurant, a tiny place tucked on a remote street in the bustling city. There were only four tables set up, and only one waiter working, a crinkly old man who put his hands over them like he was blessing them before he took their order. "Stai contenta!" He whispered like it was a prayer. "Be happy!"
She had finally caught her breath, and stopped laughing. Thank God. He didn't think he could take much more it.
"I could never sing for you," she said, and the candlelight gleamed off her black hair.
"I'd sing for you," he replied immeaditely. Where did that come from? He *hated* to sing. He couldn't carry a tune to save his life.
And yet, he knew, if she asked him too, really asked him too -- he would. In front of people, even. Oh, God. What's going on here?
She cocked her head to the side. "Really?"
Oh, no. Backtrack. Immediately .
He mimicked her, cocking his head to the side. The left. She had a freck-- Oh, shut up already.
"Maybe," he teased. "But I'd never give you the remote control."
She tossed her hair, running her fingers through it. Oh, God. Was her hair always that soft looking?
She smiled at him as if she knew what he was thinking.
"Then you must not love me," she teased, and of its own accord, his hand darted forward and grabbed hers.
It was soft, her fingers warm as her eyes widened in pleased surprise. "Trust me," he said, his voice firm and convincing, yet soft and deep. She shivered. He smiled. Shivering is good.
"Trust me," he repeated, brushing her hand against his lips. "I love you."