Sandwiches

'Good morning' she says. 'sleep well?' a question.
He blinks the sleep from his eyes, nodding.
White underwear lies on the floor, flung there last night in the consummation rituals.
Last night.
Last night they danced until midnight.
Last night they were so tired they didn't think they'd be able to stay awake any longer.
But it was worth it, staying awake like that.
Very worth it.
He remembers it all.
The white dress.
The ceremony.
The dancing.
The longing to just run away from everyone with her and find a nice, dark corner somewhere.
It was worth the wait.
Worth the wait.
She remembers it too.
The white dress.
The reception.
The friends hugging her goodbye.
The airplane ride.
The hotel room.
And now- waking up.
'I have to say it sometime darling' he says, 'make me a sandwich, I'm starving.'
And now she's mad.
Seething.
'a SANDWICH?'
very mad.
This marriage is not going to last.
Or so it seems.
But then she continues.
'We're in Paris and all you can think to ask for is a sandwich? I knew I shouldn't have married an American.'
Definitely not going to last.
Or so it seems.
But then she smiles.
Flings the curtains wide.
And staring out the window, says:
'Get your clothes on.'
She's already dressed.
Turns.
Sits down on the bed.
Kisses him.
'We're going to go look for some real food.'
She waits for him to get dressed.
Pulls him out of the room.
Down the stairs.
And into the bright, French daylight.