I read this in a blog and thought it was very sweet..
I sat at the gate, waiting for the plane back to Belfast and watching a man at the far end of the lounge read to his girlfriend.
Ah. So sweet and tender. I think being read to is one of the nicest things possible. I once told a friend that my idea of romance was to be shut up in a cottage on Cape Cod while Ira Glass read poetry to me. This was a number of years ago, before I moved here, and while the proper nouns have changed, the general scenario is much the same.
So I tried not to stare at the guy who appeared to be reading aloud items from the newspaper. Ironically, at this touching airport moment, I was deleting all the text messages I’d collected from the only glimmer of romantic possibility I’d had in Northern Ireland. I erased the little library — not out of pique, but out of boredom and resignation — and wondered why I’m always attracted to people who are
(a) supremely talented
(b) charmingly quirky
(c) arguably gay
As I chose my seat on the plane, I noticed that this man was extremely attentive to his travel companion. They were many rows behind me, but I saw him place her bag in the overhead compartment. At journey’s end, yard down the footpath, I watched him light a cigarette for her — old-time-movie style, both in his mouth.
Finally I indulged my curiosity. I walked to the smoking area so I could get a good look at this paragon of gallantry and the woman who inspired him. She is blind. Then again, so is love.