He took me to see Les Misérables in Auckland one night many years ago now, and we dressed to the nines for the occasion. My cocktail dress was short, with killer heels and a tiny bag with nothing but my lipstick in it and a few dollars. He loved me in red; we could barely keep our hands to ourselves as we made our way to our seats. It was my first live theater show and I was so excited, I could hardly breathe.
What I remember most, apart from the outstanding performance, was forgetting to tuck a hanky into the sparkly bag I carried and his words afterward. Barely ten minutes into the performance, I was sobbing at the drama unfolding on the stage in front of us, gripping his hand tightly. Thankfully he had a handkerchief.
Later at the end of the show as he tilted my chin upward with a finger and saw the tear streaks on my cheeks, the make-up a smudged ruin on my face and my red nose nearly glowing in the dim lighting, he asked, with worry in his voice, if I had enjoyed it.
I grinned like a demented person and told him how marvelous it was as he threw back his head and laughed. He kissed me and said that I was the most beautiful woman in the world and that he loved me. It was the first time that he’d said it that night. Even now, when I hear music from Les Misérables, or see the dress I wore that night tucked into the back of my wardrobe, I smile, and I remember.
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