When the evening was over, Bruce and I returned to my house. We collapsed in bed after showering.
“My feet hurt,” I complained as we both reclined against the pillows, TV blaring some B movie while I massaged my arches.
“It’s those shoes you wore. Anything less made for torture, I’ve never found. It’s a wonder you can still walk.”
“Brigitte was insistent that we wear a certain style of shoe, and the only pair available was a half-size too small.”
“I know, love, and you were a trooper to survive so long. Tomorrow, we’ll hold a ceremony to burn them together, okay?”
“I love you, too,” I replied. After a few seconds of silence on his part, I clued in to what I’d just said. “Oh, dear, that’s not quite how I wanted to do this.”
He searched my face. “Do you mean it?”
I stopped massaging m
