Acts of Love

Romance is a dying art. Few people know how to light the fire of passion. Even fewer know how to keep it burning. They fall into a rut, and those are hard to get out of. They let the fire smolder until there is nothing left but a glowing coal, a gentle heat that fades to familiarity and acceptance. They go through the motions of love, but the emotion too often remains stifled. I am different. I work hard at our relationship. I am not one merely to speak about love or wax philosophical about relationships. I am a man of action. I have found that little things, properly timed, go a long way toward keeping the fire kindled. For example, I once left a single red rose on the kitchen counter right by the coffee pot where I knew she would see it. Of course, I was already at work when she found it, but I imagined her smile as she brought the burgundy petals to her face and inhaled the sweet scent. I imagined her mouth forming “thank you” as she searched for something to put the rose in so she could see it every day. When it dried, she pressed the petals between sheets of paper and preserved them in the pages of her Bible.

I left a stuffed bear--one clutching a heart--on the sofa to keep her company when I was away. It was plush and warm and good, quiet company. I left her chocolates, which I know she adores. Her favorites are hazelnuts covered in dark cocoa—crunchy, creamy, and decadent. They are not cheap, but nothing is too good for the woman of my dreams. I wrapped two boxes and left them on the bed.

That was just the beginning. I bought her an expensive silver locket, engraved with her name, with a little picture of her inside. The picture was one of the best I had. It was a picture of her walking in the park along the river. Her hair was in a bob, just below the ears. It is a little longer now. Behind her is the river, with white ripples from the gusts of wind that seem to live in the park. If you look closely, you can see birds on the water. She is smiling as she looks at the camera. I love those natural shots over ones where she poses. She is so much more attractive when she does not try. I cut the picture to fit the locket and hung it from her bathroom mirror where she could not help but see it first thing after she woke up.

I never expect anything in return, not even a thank you. Romance is its own reward. The thrill of knowing that she appreciated the gifts; the thrill of knowing that each little surprise solidified our commitment, is thanks enough. Besides, I know that she will thank me later, and in unexpected ways.

A few weeks later, I left a little note. I taped it to the container of orange juice she kept in the fridge. I wrote it in poetry, using all the flowery and romantic words that I could muster. The poem was a clue to where she needed to go next. I led her back and forth all through her house, one room to another like a maze until at last she stood before her bedroom closet. Pulling back the door, she pulled out her fluffy yellow bathrobe. Reaching into the pocket, she felt the domed lid. Inside, the light glinted off the diamond. The last note “Please marry me,” I stuck to the inside of the lid.

Sadly, she never got the chance to answer. The police took me away. My lawyer says I could get five years, all for little acts of love.