There is an older Black couple who I occasionally see while riding the train in the morning to work and I’ve seen them so often I feel like I know them. In fact, I have to stop myself from grinning and waving every time I recognize them.
They always sit in the corner with him on the outside and she is nestled in the corner. They both sleep during the ride, at least what New Yorkers call sleep, her body leaning into his. Moments before the train pulls in his station, they kiss each other goodbye.
I promise I am not a stalker; they follow this routine every time.
Sometimes they whisper things to each other and I try to imagine the context. Are they discussing the young man sitting across from them with his legs splayed out so no one else can squeeze next to him? Or are they reminiscing over the good ‘ole days when all of their children were safely tucked in their beds, away from the uncertainties of this world?
It’s sweet, endearing, and never fails to remind me romantic love is still possible even after many years of marriage.
Sometimes I look over at hubby’s sleeping face and wonder what we will look like after that many years of marriage. Will a smile still spread across my face when he enters a room? Will he still have the strength to hoist me over his shoulders? Will we continue to share inside jokes that are only between the two of us?