the one in birmingham

He picks me up from work. I make him flip the mirror up and I change in the backseat. We drive over mountains, the long way; we hit the streets of Birmingham, with its Ginkgo trees. He picks me a bouquet of leaves that I put between the pages of a book filled with photos of us. He holds my hand and I laugh to his face, his fedora tipped to the left and his striped tie askew.

We are happy in silence, his hand on the back of my neck, the car windows open, my eyes closed.

"You like this song?" He asks and I always tell him the truth, even if it hurts. He is serious about his music and I am serious about my opinions.

"How about this one?" And I say yes, because he already knows, and it's why we're in Birmingham, to see it played by the penner and piper. His gift to me is always music, even when I tell him the truth.

Later, when the old theater is dark and the burgundy velvet curtains are shivering with anticipatory movement, he leans over and tells me he'll never forget tonight. I tell him that tonight is only halfway through, that they haven't begun playing yet. He tells me when he saw me walking toward him from work, disheveled and tired that he already had enough to make it a night for the books. It's good, I say to him, patting our book with photos and Ginko leaves, we have a lot of pages to fill.

We are driving home, on the highway, the short way. I am curled with my back against the door, staring at his profile in the street lights. "Are you staring at me?" He asks. And I tell him the truth, that I always want to stare at him.