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I make really good sangria. I think the secret is in the liquors and liqueurs that I include. The best part about it is that it only gets better with time. I made a pitcher on Tuesday, and by last night the diced fruit had become fully invested with the flavors of the wine mixture, and wine mixture had become fully vested with the flavors of the diced fruit. It had reached peak sangria. We got home from work yesterday at normal times. My Wednesdays are a little later (6:45) and hers a little earlier (5:15ish) but normal times. Dinner was out of the way by the time I got home, and I was soon down to the minimum allowable attire (just a pair of shorts). My kids are used to this dress code, and have stopped complaining. My mortgage payment, my rules on dress code. Well, HER rules on dress code. I would defer to their sensibilities in the past, but this time, Mrs Fillmore told me I wasn't allowed to wear a shirt tonight. First class views of the nipple ring for all! As related yesterday, after I rubbed and moisturized her feet, she booted me, so I started working on our vacation plan, basically a day-by-day itinerary with pictures and links to info and videos. This is another nod to Herself. Our modus operandi in this regard was always just a general knowledge of when and where we were going, and letting the details sort themselves out. This is NOT how Mrs Fillmore grew up, nor is it what she likes. So, of course, now we do what she wants. Happily. I'm having a lot of fun with it. After a bit, Mrs Fillmore comes downstairs and grabs a sangria. Or rather I get her one, and she finishes up her paperwork for work. One of our adult children is out in the cabin with his stoner friends and invites us out. She rousts me from what I'm doing and sends me out there. Shirtless, of course. On the way, I set up the youngest with a nice fire in the firepit so when her friends come over they can toast marshmallows. I get out there and pretend to have "caught" them smoking weed. Artfully, I run down the list of things they are not allowed to smoke in the cabin (cigarettes, cigars, hookahs, vaping). One of them notices I did not mention weed, and offers me some. It was some awfully mellow ganja. Easy to smoke, not too punchy. I watch the movie with them for a bit (one of my favorites) before I head back inside. The house is empty, except for us. She is on the couch, and smiles up at me, tapping the floor at her feet with her toes. I kneel down and drape myself over her crossed legs, careful to take most of my weight onto the couch via my forearm. She tells me she was reading old emails from last September, when we were fighting so bad we both thought divorce was imminent. This would normally have been cause for alarm, or me to flee the scene. But her smile is serene, and there is nothing but love in her eyes. She is not even tipsy, having had a half a glass. She reads to me for a little while, stroking the back of my head with her free hand. They are emails between her and her sister, and they are a fairly objective record of what was going on back then, but laced throughout the desolation and despair is humor and compassion. In the depths of her disappointment in our marriage, she was still being funny with her sister, and her words about me were deeply compassionate. One thing I remember is her talking about how she's gotten over the troubles we had but that I had not, so I tortured myself, but she was the one who had to pay. This deep love and abiding patience never faded, and illustrates why I eventually just put myself completely in her hands. Oh, how I love her. During the course of this, I move off of her legs and physically submit more and more. First it is me just kneeling, not supporting myself on her in any way, then my forhead is on the couch and her legs are on my shoulders, then I'm slowly moving down to til my forehead is on the ground, and her feet are flat on my back, like I'm a loving, living ottoman. Then my arms are behind my back, I'm fully prostrate, and she's crossed her legs at the ankle and resting her heels on my ass. She stops reading the old email exchange with her sister (I'm smiling and content throughout) and asks me a question after a pause long enough for my heart to beat three times. "What are you thinking about?" I answer instantly. "Nothing, my sweet." Because I am not. I am just focusing on her voice, and what she's saying. I'm not reliving the events she is recounting, but rather letting the love and compassion the old her from the letter is showing wash over me, wrapping me in its comforting, reassuring warmth. Letting the connectedness of the moment lock me in place at her feet, feeling the energy flow from her warm legs and feet onto my back and ass. I can hear her get a little emotional; not choked up, just a shift in the vibrancy of the timbre of her voice. I can't remember the rest of the exchange, but she does not challenge what I say, but rather makes me elaborate, explaining what I am feeling in no uncertain terms, and reaffirming her dominance of me, my complete submission to her will. I couldn't tell you how long we stayed in those positions, but it was both a long time, and not long enough. As I recount this here I remember one feeling, most of all. Contentment. Utter and complete.
