Thursday night is generally not the night I think of as anything extraordinarily special happening. I was about to go downstairs to hang out on the couch before bed when Matthew told me to wait upstairs. He said he had a “little surprise” for me. I felt a little bit like I was 18 again, and excitedly sat cross-legged on our bed and waited. I heard him go outside to his truck, then I heard the microwave in the kitchen, and a few minutes later he was back, signaling me to come. I went downstairs where all of the lights were off except a candle on the coffee table. Then he brought me a hot mug of crème brûlée late from Starbucks and a bowl of popcorn, and pushed play on the DVD/CD player. He told me to close my eyes, while he started to rub my feet. Then I was transported to New York City or London, where the night before I had mentioned briefly that Josh Groban was singing, in the upcoming week. New York, last night, actually. Music completely crumbles me and captures me and then puts me back together again.
We sat on the couch together and listened to the entire CD by candlelight.
That is romantic.