I am not embarrassed to say that I took the opportunity to read a little bit of French love poetry from one of my favorite works of
mommy porn historical literature.
Tant que je vive, mon cueur ne changera...
Mr. Kamikaze, to be honest, is not really into French poetry, but he listens, if only so that he can throw it back at me in some vaguely mocking context.
"I got your cueur," he will say - an expression not as much improved by the French as you might expect.
He is always surprising me like that. He doesn't seem to be listening at all, but then, weeks later he will quote my words back to me verbatim, only in a way that makes them sound ridiculous.
But even when we are not listening to one another, we often hear the same things.
We are listening to an NPR Valentine's Day story about the 14 lucky couples chosen for the once-a-year Empire State Building wedding ceremonies. Hundreds of romantics, it seems, dream of being married at the top of the building.
We are happy for them, we really are. But as one newlywed describes the long-distance romance that preceded her rose-strewn marriage proposal and her very tall wedding, Mr. K and I lock eyes in a wordless exchange of cynicism.
"Uh oh," I say. Who gave up what?
"Can you imagine," Mr. Kamikaze says, "the amount of pressure he must have been under?"
I think that is what is meant by the term "hopeless romantic."