When I met Peter in 1965, it didn’t take me long to figure out that he liked sweets. We were working at the same place and although I didn’t want to pursue him too aggressively, I spent a fair amount of time walking by the candy bar machine. I know that if I got the timing right, he would be there buying an after-lunch Snickers bar.
Fifty-four years later, he still can’t pass by a bowl of candy without grabbing some. And now, because we know it’s so good for us, we always eat a square of dark Belgian chocolate after dinner.
The other night I offered to hang up Peter’s jacket when we got home from an errand. It felt extra heavy. Sure enough, a bulging pocket contained a large bag of licorice sticks.
The sheepish look on his face as I pulled out the bag was priceless. My eighty-nine-year-old husband looked like the little kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.