Sniffing Marisa

And Marisa Tomei shortly joined me in middle age.

When she Eskimo kissed me, her laugh lines matched up, perfectly, with mine. The squiggly veins on the backs of Marisa's hands took on a startling definition, and her beautiful black curls were shot through with grey.

"Youse a Salt n' Peppah girl, now!" I said.

She reached up and ruffled the non-existent follicles on my my clean, bald head.

"We're going to the Stationery Store," she said.

We went down there, put a whole case of Sharpie Magic Markers on her Master card debit. Then we bought a footlocker filled with manila folders, and spiral notebooks.

I started to wheeze, hauling the heavy load out to the basket trap on my Schwinn ten speed—a bicycle built for two geezers in Love. I held a fistful of Sharpie Markers up to the sun.

"What do we do with these?"

Marisa said we were going to record our lives together from then on. If we did it, it was going in the ledger—mundane or no, Cinnamon Toast Crunch or electrical Big O.

"Oh, you mean like an old fashioned…"

"Exactly," said Marisa.

I popped the cap off a purple Sharpie, drew a big juicy heart on the bicycle seat reserved for Marisa. Then I shoved the lovely felt pen in my left nostril, and took eight deep breaths, watching Marisa, who was watching me, and writing it all down.