Take A Picture (It'll Last Longer)

“You promised to tell your biggest secret,” I said to him. “I’m holding you to it.”

“My biggest secret?” Ben gulped.

“Biggest one,” I nodded.

“I can’t do this, Catt,” Ben said nervously.

“Just spit it out and it’ll all be over with,” I said. “Like a trip to the dentist. Just say it and it’ll be done.”

“My biggest secret,” Ben said nervously.

“Yes…” I prompted.

“Catt,” Ben said, looking directly into my eyes, “my biggest secret is that I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you.” He looked like he was going to kill himself if I didn’t say anything back.

“Ben,” I said, “my biggest secret is that I love you to.”

Then we kissed. And we made out. And then we… we did what married people do, as my mother used to put it. We did what married people do several times. And for the first time, I didn’t regret a minute of it. It felt for the first time that I was doing the right thing with the right person at the right time. Afterwards, we just lay next to each other and talk, something I’d never done with anyone before, and then we fell asleep together. It was all so perfect, mainly because we weren’t accounting for one thing.

Amy was still officially staying over at our apartment.

And neither of us remembered that until six the next morning when she burst through the door screaming about how she’d just had the worst one-night stand in the history of the universe and she needed some coffee if not a little hair of the dog that bit her. Multiple times. Ben and I stumbled out of bed at her trumpeting voice then instantly remembered how naked we both were. It was a rush to through on clothes and go out to the kitchen like nothing had happened the previous night, although, legally in the eyes of the State of Illinois, Ben and I were free to romp around and do whatever we wanted to at night. Of course, there is a difference in the State of Illinois giving you the go-ahead and your husband’s big sister standing in the kitchen with the “I know what you two did last night” look on her face.

“God, the two of you sleep in late,” Amy snorted at us. At that, Ben turned such a bright color of red, I started to think his head was going to combust from embarrassment.

“It’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “Saturday’s are made for sleeping in.”

“Alright,” Amy snorted, before drinking the coffee she had made straight out of the pot. “I’m going shopping.”

“Why are you going shopping?” Ben asked her. “You don’t have any money…”

“I still have credit cards that send the bill to Beatrice and Albert’s place,” Amy smiled. “Besides, do you honestly think I’m going to haul my cookies all the way out to some pathetic dump you loves call Chicago and not spend a few pennies on the Miracle Mile? Do the words Neiman Marcus mean anything to you Ben?”

“Is he your new boyfriend?” Ben asked her ignorantly. Amy growled in frustration and then headed out the door without a goodbye. Ben looked to me, confused.

“Ben, Neiman Marcus is a high end department store,” I said to him. He still didn’t seem to be comprehending what I was saying. “Do need me to dumb it down further?”

“Yes,” Ben pouted.

“They sell clothes,” I said to him.

“Why didn’t you just say that initially?” Ben demanded to know.

“Because I gave you credit for having a higher intelligence than that,” I sighed.

“Next time, don’t,” Ben frowned.

Then we just stood their awkwardly together in the kitchen for a few minutes. I was wearing the shirt Ben had on yesterday with a pair of exercise shorts while Ben was donning a shirt he had neglected to put in the hamper three days ago and his boxers.

“So…” I said.

“That was really awkward just now,” Ben nodded.

“How about we eat breakfast?” I suggested.

“Okay,” Ben said.

We didn’t eat breakfast. We did what married people do but this time in the kitchen. Don’t ask me how it happened. One minute I was asking Ben if we had any eggs left in the fridge and the next thing I know, I’m doing a spread-eagle on the counter top. Finally, we decided we were going out for breakfast because making breakfast ourselves didn’t seem to be very productive. After getting dressed for the day, we out to one of those brunch restaurants and ate our fill. Then Ben wanted to go look at new lens so he dragged me down to his favorite photography store and we spent three hours there. By the time I convinced Ben that he shouldn’t be giving himself a congratulatory “I get to stay in the country” present of a ten thousand dollar photography lighting system, it was lunch time and Ben suggested we out for that as well, since the kitchen didn’t seem to be making us want to make food that much.

“I love pizza!” Ben squealed like a three year old when the waitress laid down our order. She looked at him worriedly.

“He lived a sheltered childhood,” I said to the waitress. She looked at Ben sympathetically and then walked off to flirt with one of the guys tossing dough in the kitchen. I turned back to Ben, finding that he had already crammed half of the pizza in his mouth. “Save a little for me!”

“You usually eat one fourth of the pizza so I can have the other three fourths,” Ben replied.

“Wow, you’re a math genius,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m just eating my share,” Ben snorted.

“Since when is your share the entire thing?” I asked him, annoyed.

“I left you some!” Ben protested.

“Yeah, the parts with the burned edges,” I frowned.

“Those edges aren’t burnt,” Ben replied. “They’re slightly toasted.”

“My ass they are,” I grimaced as I took a bite. Ben made a point of looking at my ass and then received a slap against the back of his head for doing so.

“What?” Ben said, rubbing where I had hit him. “So I’m not allowed to look at your ass now?”

“Not in public,” I hissed.

“Why not in public?” Ben demanded to know very offended.

“Well, just don’t make a big show of it!” I said to him, annoyed.

“Why can’t I make a show of it?” Ben asked, annoyed.

“Because it’s embarrassing!” I said to him, tiredly.

“It’s embarrassing that your husband checks you out in public?” Ben said with a raised eyebrow. “You know, most people have problems getting their husbands to notice them at all.”

“We’ve been married two months,” I rolled my eyes. “Usually that sort of thing doesn’t set in until you’ve been married seven years. That’s why they call it the seven year itch.”

“Really? Because I thought it was because that was the year that all the STDs your spouse gave you started acting up,” Ben said. It took me a minute for him to realize he was dead serious.

“You actually thought that?” I said in disbelief.

“Well, it’s what my mum used to say to discourage us from having premarital sex,” Ben blushed. “She said you’d pick up STDs and the Seven Year Itch was when all of the STDs caught up with you.”

“And you believed her?” I laughed.

“She was scary when she said it. I was inclined to believe her so my mortality rate didn’t suddenly spike,” Ben frowned.

“Ben, your gullibility is frightening,” I shook my head.

“Not as frightening as my mum,” Ben said, looking down at his feet.