Your Wish is My Command

Yesterday was J~'s birthday. He came to my place after work, and I took him out for an extravagant dinner. The room was loud, the food was outstanding, and we ate it smiling, shouting occasionally into each other's ears about how incredible it is that we've found each other, how lucky we both feel. We ordered dessert. No singing, no candles - I didn't want to make a spectacle out of him. But I had him make a wish just the same. He closed his eyes to concentrate before taking a first bite.

In the parking lot, our bellies full, waiting for the valet to bring the car around (actually waiting, ludicrously, for the valet to back the car out of the spot exactly in front of us), J~ asked, "Do you want to know my wish?"

We discussed the rules of wishes: if you tell me, then it won't come true, I protested. And the finer points of where these rules come from in the first place: Are you really superstitious about that? he asked. I gave it a moment's thought. No I guess not. Tell me.

"I wished that we make a baby tonight."

People, I'm telling you, he could have laid me down right there and then. The valet could've backed right over us. I wouldn't have minded one bit.