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Date Night

 My spouse likes to weave a strand of gay-rights advocacy into many, many normal events; if he acts as "mystery reader" in a PK class, he is likely to choose "The Sissy Duckling." If he goes to see the "Barbie" movie, he tells everyone--including the waitress at our local diner, and the strangers in the AMC parking lot.


Last week, we greeted our favorite babysitter, who knows almost nothing about us. "Thanks for coming," said Marc. "We're off to see the Taylor Swift film."

The sitter chuckled, in a hearty way; I myself have used that chuckle when a tutoring client has volunteered unneeded information.

At the concessions stand, Marc weighed his options. "You're saying that the commemorative Eras plastic cup is only eight additional dollars? Let's take it. It can double as a vase."

During the concert, I watched quietly. Also, I watched my spouse, who seemed to have five or six mood swings, as usual: One part of his evening was a nap, another was a trip to the bathroom, and yet a third was an ecstatic announcement. "I love this movie! I want to see it again. I want to see it again RIGHT NOW!" I can't always predict every shift in Marc's internal temperature; for example, my jaw dropped when he offered his verdict on "All Too Well." I'm quoting him verbatim here: "So, in that one...which guy was she writing about?"

In the aftermath of this date night, Marc has visions of new Halloween lawn decor: Taylor with various Chiefs players, all morphed into skeletons, with open coffins, and with "downstage" fields of sequined cardboard guitars. We're not there yet. Give us time.
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