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In this world, there exist several certain incontrovertible truths. The sun rises in the east. Death is inevitable. And Bibi Reden, heiress to a voluntarily abdicated monetary fortune, will stand in front of the olive oil section for no shorter than four minutes.
I've timed it. I've accepted it. Amy's accepted it. And I presume you have too. If you haven't, you most definitely will, in time.
"Why did you bring me along, Bibi?"
"It's a surprise!" Bibi beamed earnestly, giving Amy 'the look': those magenta irises peering into Amy's soul, the look that has been melting Amy's heart for the better part of a decade. It showed absolutely no sign of stopping anytime soon.
"Okay," Amy said with a sigh.
Amy, that klutz. She wasn't yet as prinking as her wife, and she probably never would be. Amy made peace with this fact forever ago. On the contrary, Amy will probably never be as effervescent as Bibi, but last week she sustained eye contact with a stranger for more than half a second. Progress is progress, but I digress.
Speaking of progress, the couple sauntered their way to the olive oil aisle. The couple's sauntering, to nobody's surprise, came to a halt. To the Redens, sauntering looked less like walking hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and moreso walking hand in hand, Amy trailing behind and to the left a little. Bibi was always the asserti--"Ooh! Olive oil!" Bibi exclaimed, feigning shock. I started the timer on my phone. Bibi took a step back to vacillate between every possible option. Amy waited patiently. I waited patiently. Hell, even the olive oils even waited patiently.
Bibi, the loquacious woman she was, made not even a single utterance during this interval. In seven whole years, the olive oil aisle is the only remedy for Bibi's garrulousness. Amy, during this period, drifted down the aisle, picked up a jar of sweet dill pickles, and began to intensely read the label.
She doesn't even like pickles.
After seven years, you tend to notice even the most trivial of your partner's idiosyncrasies. One of Amy's is finding excuses in everyday tasks to quietly observe her wife in her peripheral vision, so as not to be caught. It's an old habit of hers from high school, when she would watch the twin-tailed girl from afar, with a youthful, yearning heart. Wondering what it would be like to hold hands as lovers, not just friends. To gaze into one other's eyes with a mutual longing fo-- "This one is good!" Bibi remarked, holding up a bottle of Partanna.
Four and a half minutes, almost exactly.
"Amy, what are you doing, darling? You don't even like pickles."
"Nothing!" Amy dissembled sharply, her ears flushing a certain shade of pink. She fooled nobody. She never does.
Amy put the jar back on the shelf with the chagrin of a child returning something they were not supposed to have. Bibi flashed Amy a smile and softly giggled.
Seven years and some months ago, Amy Lee became acquainted with Bibi Reden under circumstances I will charitably classify as inauspicious. She was certain that the inexorable truth of the matter was that true love was a commodity. Rationed and bestowed upon a predestined, chosen few. For whatever reason, Amy believed with every nerve and neuron in her body, that her name did not appear on that list.
In this world, there exist several certain incontrovertible truths. The sun rises in the east. Death is inevitable. Bibi Reden, heiress to a voluntarily abdicated monetary fortune, will stand in front of the olive oil section for no shorter than four minutes. And Amy Reden, the uxorious, unkempt, clumsy woman she is, is wholeheartedly loved. For every stumble and stride, every blush and brood, and every tear and triumph.
Amy's accepted it. I've accepted it. And I presume you have too.