Under the Ellipsis

When I was a girl—love but mostly S-E-X—remained hidden beneath an ellipsis of ink. The hero swooped to take the girl in his arms, she forgot to remember to struggle, long enough to stay, and then . . . dot, dot, dot . . . It was

delicious, tantalizing punctuation—marking dog-eared pages, full of anticipation and imagination.

And now—not so much.

In today’s world romance isn’t for the faint of heart or subtle of gesture; the girls have no clothes on, and the boys don’t wear gloves, which is too bad because once upon a time (according to Jane Austen) when a man touched your naked hand with his naked hand you were engaged. I know it’s true. I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theater.

I’m happy to report that at our cave . . . oops, sorry . . . I mean house, at our house, romance is still something of a mystery, surrounded by subtleties, covered with the gentle breeze of confusion, wrapped up in code words.

Smiling, I walked into my husband’s office recently, only to be greeted with the following invitation (quite possibly threat, the jury is still out.)

Without looking at me, he said, “Careful or I’ll take you over there on that tofu and . . .”

Confused and a little alarmed I scanned our office and saw stuffed bookshelves, filing cabinets, computer junk, and pillows lining a . . .

“Are you trying to say futon? You’ll take me over there on the futon and . . .Because, I can’t begin to describe to you how disturbed I am by the idea of you doing unspeakable things to my person on tofu. Maybe you’re having word seizures or . . .”

“I’m not having Caesars or . . .”

“Not Caesars, I said . . .”

At this point in the exchange, he removed one glove and stretched out a naked hand towards my person and in the general direction of the futon. I ran and then . . .

Sometimes in dreams I imagine long fingers of mist rolling across the moors behind the swamp in our backyard—out past the horse trailer with the busted tail light—while the moon drifts across a jaundiced sky, and my heart thumps loudly in the silent chambers of my heart, as I hide under the long folding couch resembling a bent bed; into the cloying depths of my dreaming night I can often hear Lord Sherwood hissing, “Let’s get it on.”

Hey, there’s a reason I wear my hair exceedingly short—the better not to be dragged off to some misnamed lair resembling a cave, but that’s romance for you in this modern day and time.

One minute you’re a lady wearing gloves and the next minute he’s got you on tofu and . . . dot, dot, dot . . .

Linda (Lady Lovelorn) Zern