Pretty much all my best dates were with the man who later became my husband. back then we lived in Sydney.
He was, still is, a lover of most of arts but particularly world music, dance and performance. His pattern as a bachelor was to scan the ads for what’s on every Friday - inevitably finding five or six events he was interested in and then have awful quandaries about which he would choose. But for some odd reason I never have any trouble knowing what I prefer in an instant and at least one of his choices would always appeal to me. I think that’s a key factor in relationships. When you discover that you share similar values and tastes you have a foundation for compatibility.
Anyway, his solo bachelor habits made him a natural for dinner and a night out, and after about six months these were followed by a leisurely morning in. We went dutch; taking equality in all things for granted. There were great moments. Like one time when we happened to be passing a Women-Reclaim-the-Night march, and a bunch of radical feminist lesbians threw their fists in the air and shouted “Yai, Ari!” knowing that he was a man who favoured their causes.
Here’s one that stands out in my memories. I guess at the time we had been dating for about two years.
When I arrived at his place, the front door was open and the table was set with fresh roses from the back garden, lit candles, sandalwood incense and an Indian sunset raga playing in the background. He had steamed brown rice with fresh vegetables and ginger and served them with fried tofu, tamari, and roasted sunflower seeds. We were supposed to be quick because we had tickets for a concert at the Opera House, but we got carried away chatting about our day, our friends and the news.
He drove far too fast to find a parking place by the Domain. We ran through the Botanical Gardens where the fig trees and flying fruit-bats were silhouetted against a huge orange moon. One tree was so beautiful we stopped laughing and breathless against its trunk, in the hard comfort of the giant folds in its buttress roots. I couldn’t resist the moment and raised my full length skirt to invite him in.
Then we raced again and arrived last to be seated. The hors d’oeuvre was Bach’s sonata in G minor H for oboe and harpsichord, the main course, Sir Charles Mackerras conducting the Sydney Symphony Orchestra playing Debussy’s L’Apres-Midi d’un Faune. It all sounded like bliss.
Back at his place again, a hot chocolate before bed and chatting about it all.
Then in the morning, the sun poured through his bedroom window, made the world shine gold, and I loved the sight and smell and feel of him. When I closed my eyelids it shone vermilion. We made love, mutual, slow, leisurely, sensuous, generous, till we were sated and exhausted.
Energies soon revived, we walked to Bondi Beach for a swim, followed by percolated coffee, almond croissants, fresh orange juice in a cafe with long discussions of the polemics of the latest news in the Saturday Morning Herald.
This post was edited by Benedict Arnold at December 22, 2017 8:54 AM MST