It Started In the Dairy Section

What he told me is what I kind of knew. Either change my attitude or move on, because Clarissa wasn't going to give up that lucrative part of her livelihood. I missed her terribly, so much that it affected my work and sleep—or lack thereof. I started to call her several times, then backed off knowing I could never accept what she did. The personal training was fine. If only she'd drop the sex part.

But, as noted, I loved the woman, adored her. How does one trash such intense feelings and then move on? Some men and women could, I couldn't. So, two days before Labor Day, I broke down, jumped in my Chevy and headed over to her condo, less than ten miles away. What happened next is something you see only in the movies or read about in a feel-good novel. Stopping at a red light at a busy four-way intersection, I spotted Clarissa's Mercedes on the other side, headed toward my area. When the light changed and we started to move, she saw me too and beeped her horn. Glancing at my rear-view, I could see her slowing down, then pulling into a McDonald's parking lot. When the cars passed, I did a u-turn, blasted through the intersection and then into the McDonald's beside her. We both alighted from our cars at the same time. Damn, she looked hot, what with her hair down and wearing shorts, heels and a low-cut sleeveless blouse. "I know you won't believe this," she said, "but I was on my way to surprise you."

When she started to tear up, I took her into my arms and told her the same thing, told her how much I missed her and loved her, how empty my life would be without her in it. "I've done lots of soul searching," I whispered, struggling not to break down.

She expressed like sentiments, then stepped back and wiped her eyes. "Do you really think that I'd be screwing other guys, business related or not, if we got serious, if we made a life together?"

I shrugged. "But that's part of your business, what you do, what—"

"Now you listen to me, Sergeant Stupak," she ordered, reaching up and grabbing my shoulders. "I'm smart enough to know that no guy, at least no guy with any self-respect would put up with that. And no woman with a sense of self-respect would be doing it behind the back of a man she purports to love. You're that man and I'm that woman, and I fucking love you enough to drop that part of my program. Yes, I'd lose some income. But from what I can see, you're well worth it. So how do you like them apples?"

"I love them apples. Sounds like you've done plenty of soul searching of your own."

"Correct, I have. Soul searching and crying and missing you to the point of absurdity. Now, where do we go from here?"

"Where? How bout we scoot back to my place or yours—doesn't matter to me—get naked and make love till the sun goes down?"

"Sounds like my kind of plan. Great minds, not to mention great bodies, really do think alike."

We repaired to my place and made love with a passion that usurped anything that came before. We had a fabulous post-Labor Day trip to Wildwood, got engaged the day before Christmas and married the following year. A fairy tale come true? Hardly. Like all married couples, we have our issues—little things so far. But our love endures. Best of all, we're incurable romantics. Every July on the day and time we met, we return to the dairy section of Wegmans and buy a carton of vanilla yogurt.