Toaster
I avoided using even a toaster unless I really needed to. He found my aversion to cooking almost comical, and didn't bother to make me because he found my inability more amusing than the trial of teaching me would have been. To spite him one day, I popped a piece of bread in the toaster while he was doing his laundry. It burned. I swore off the toaster, but proudly ate the toast.
Apple Orchard
She thought it would be fun—a generic, couple-y date, wandering the apple orchard hand in hand and picking one or two to eat as we lounged in the sun. As we sit on the muddy ground, huddling under my coat, I can't help but wish one of us had checked the weather and seen that it was supposed to pour.
Beach
He's always hated the feel of sand between his toes, the way even dry sand seems to stick for days and the way it burns when it's hardly even sunny. She doesn't know that; whenever she asks if they can spend a weekend in the country, he's all too glad to go with her, and if she wants to go for walks on the beach at sunset, he isn't going to complain. With her hand in his, the light hitting her hair in an incredible way, he forgets about the sand. For the moment, anyway.
Rain
We were in the middle of a run-down country road when it started drizzling. The rain wasn't bad, at first. And then all of a sudden it was. That's how it always seems to happen. At first it seemed like he was going to keep driving and I figured I might as well let him, but the rain came down faster than the wipers could make things anywhere near visible. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel in frustration and pulled to the side of the road, turning the car off. I reached out my hand, gripping his arm. I talked to him as he cuddled against my arm. It stopped raining, but he didn't start the car up again for a long, long time.
Field
She's the one who suggests we go on a picnic. I prepare the food, because it's a week when she's declared that she's going nowhere near the kitchen. She, in turn, figures out where precisely it is that we're going. She drives and I sit very patiently with the picnic basket (because of course for occasions like this one she would insist on having a wooden basket with the red checked lining) on my too-cramped legs because she won't let me move the seats in her car. The field that she's found looks to be out of a film—there's even an ancient tree that she brings us to, spreading out the blanket. The breeze glides across the field so gently, only barely moving her hair. She lies back and closes her eyes, commenting that it's a perfect day. I wait until I've poured champagne and dropped the ring inside before responding that it's not quite perfect. Yet.
Wildflowers
Her bouquet is made with wildflowers. It was his idea, originally; he said they would be simple but beautiful. For a second, she laughed, but then she realized how brilliant it really was. Not that she told him, of course. She didn't have to, though. He watches her walk down the aisle with those flowers in hand and knows that she thinks they're perfect, because otherwise a woman as perfect as her wouldn't bother.
Laughter
After we kiss for the first time, we laugh. It's not because the scene is uncomfortable. On the contrary, I feel incredibly comfortable wrapped in his arms, sprawled out with him across his sofa. The fact of the matter is that laughter is what we know, what we do. Our laughter is not nervous. In fact, it's almost light-hearted, because he and I both know how long it's been coming. It's a relief, to get that kiss out of the way, because after that we can fill our time with a million more.
Holding Hands
She clings to my hand as we stroll through the store together, shopping for a dining room table. We pass by a few people who look at us for a second too long, eyes pointedly on our intertwined fingers. With every other woman who I've ever dated, I would have been embarrassed to be receiving such attention on Valentine's Day, I would have pulled my hand away as soon as the first person looked in our direction. Her, though… I want the world to know she's mine. So I cherish each moment that we're holding hands. One man looks at us for an exceptionally long time. Purely to spite him, I lean over and peck her, first on the cheek and then on the lips.
Cliché
The first time he saw her in that room, he became speechless. He felt like they were the only two people in the room. Such an absurd idea, but one he felt all the same. He crossed the room, and it felt as though he was floating on air. He rested his hand on her arm and sparks flew. She turned to look at him and smiled, and his heart began to beat a mile a minute. To call her the love of his life would be a cliché, but it would be difficult to be more clichéd than those first few moments. Years later, when they discussed the first time they met, he told her about the way he felt. In response, she told him that it was love at first sight.
Ghost
His lips ghost across my collarbone and I shiver. My obvious response causes a smile on his part, which I can feel as he kisses his way up my neck and to my lips, but he doesn't linger there for long. He sits up and gazes at me a moment, his eyes shining as he pushes my hair back from my face gently. We don't move to his bedroom; I don't know if that thought even crosses his mind. He tells me he loves me before kissing me again.