Bliss

This is not a review of the Manhattan spa, but a short epistle in the last week of my life. The week, I may very well recount to having changed my life, twenty years from now.

D'Souza drove me home on Saturday morning and spent the entire weekend meeting my folks. Mom's high-pitched squeals and constant attention drove him a bit batty but he enjoyed the manliness of Marc's football tangents. I cooked him a simple pasta dinner over which he said grace before we sat down at the family dining table and ate while candles waxed poetic. Mom and Marc left us to our devices as their previous engagements dictated they head to a hospital fundraising event. Despite the adult themes, there were elements of high school in that weekend. Him sleeping on the couch while I donned my Indian nightgown (imagine a curve hugging mu-mu) and slept in my room upstairs coupled with my mom taking us to a local diner for brunch on Sunday afternoon cloaked the grown-up aspects of this meeting in child-like innocence.

We parted ways Monday morning after we spent our first night at la casa de Mi. Despite the messy bedroom and frantically jumping dog, it went well. He left awkwardly kissing me goodbye as question marks danced above my head.

We connected later and discussed the implications of meeting the parents as well as the general direction we were headed. Our mutual need for control and incredible stubbornness grounded the conversation in questions answering questions and answeres evading ears. Soon, thereafter, he invited me to him and I declined.

I did appear Tuesday morning, cold rice in tow, in an effort to cook him lunch as he worked from home. He ran me to the local Shoprite where I proceeded to pick out the perfect singing card for myself for Valentine's Day upon his insistence. Something to be said for getting exactly what I want. Lunch turned to dinner...leading to breakfast, allowing us to share leftovers for lunch the next day.

Somewhere in there he asked me exactly what kind of diamond ring I wanted. He was well-aware of my three-carat requirement, but he wanted clarity on the cut as well as the expected value of such a gesture. Not that it's about money. It's never about the money. Soon after I directed him to the Tiffany's website to showcase a solataire in the setting of my dreams, in lieu of balking at the figure he professed his appreciation for the style--my style. As I stirred the Butter Chicken and checked on the rice cooker--a picture of domesticity, in Jersey City, no less--I realized that this may be it. He may be it. It was sudden but I wasn't startled.

We had reservations last night at Churrascaria Plataforma. It was one of the most romantic dinners I've ever had. The place itself was not imbued in Valentine's Day splendor despite the heart-shaped balloon centerpieces; however, his frequent question, "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" in conjunction with pushing me to reveal the exact nature of my feelings for him only so he could reciprocate them left this shrew tamed. I've met my match. He's got the pizzazz and gumption I need in a man with the sensitivity and caring I want. He gets that I get him and he's accepted that he'll never really get me. A part of my heart remained in Bombay when I boarded that plane to this place I call home; D'Souza found it and brought it back to me last night.