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I’m in Lowe’s, strolling down the bathroom sink aisle, looking at sinks with her.
We are trying to decide which sink-cabinet combo to buy to replace her old sink. Her old sink no longer works, and its two bowls are being used as makeshift storage bins. And, occasionally, for the cat to reside in. That’s not good. So, here we are at Lowe’s in Lafayette, Louisiana, not far from where she lives, walking down the aisle, as it were, perusing sinks. We are also looking at fixtures. You know, faucet handles and such. Those choices, too.
A sense of contentment comes over me. I’m 76, and I’ve never done this before. I’m looking at bathroom sinks with her, the woman I love. The depth of this contentment is so vast, it’s almost disorienting. I am doing what, normally, I would have been doing in my twenties or thirties with a woman I loved. I did not do that then. I did get married, but we did not go to Lowe’s or the equivalent, because we lived in an apartment. We already had a lot of stuff, and you do not buy a bathroom sink for an apartment you don’t own.
I missed out on some of the most basic aspects of a relationship. Until now. This sense of contentment sneaks up on me. I didn’t know it was happening and didn’t understand it until later. I feel it now, though, as I walk with her, an unmistakable glow.
We may never win the Nobel Prize, run a company, hit a home run in Yankee Stadium, rescue someone from a burning building, discover the cure for a terrible disease, but most of us can have the chance to shop for bathroom sinks with someone we love.
This is all new to me.
This simple act—whether it be sinks, siding or sofas—links me to the world, and at the same time is only ours. She and I are doing this together. The choices we make are ours and bind us closer together.
“What about this one? What do you think?”
“Is that the only color?”