“I kind of want to do something ridiculous for brunch, but I know it’s too much,” I say.
“Like what?” you reply.
“Like pie,” I say.
“Or we could have charcuterie,” you offer.
We have a ton leftover of both. It’s the day after Thanksgiving — and even though it was just the two of us, you cooked for eight people. As one does.
“Aw, man,” I say. “That’s an idea. Now I’m torn between pie and charcuterie.”
“Or we could do both,” you reply.
I laugh at this. “Really?”
“Really,” you reply.
“Pie and charcuterie.” Then I pause for a moment. “Pie-cuterie.”
“Pie-cuterie, it is,” I announce. I go off and make up a small platter of cheese and crackers. Cut thin slices of both pies you made this year and top them with whipped cream.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Like your pie-cuterie?” I ask.
You nod. “Although I have to say,” you add, “my favorite cutie pie is you.”
“Awwwww,” I say. My entire body lights up from the compliment. You tend to live in your head a lot. And you apparently think nice things about me more often than you actually say them. I can’t remember the last time you’ve said something this damn sweet in words. It’s been challenging sometimes because my primary love language is words of affirmation (and I shower you with spontaneous sincere compliments) — but I’ve learned to look into your actions and translate them into words myself.
So it hits me hard when you say something like this. Over the top and cheesy, maybe. But so damn cute.
You catch me later on the next day, repeating it to myself again. “I’m a cutie pie.” It’s not the first time you’ve caught me.
And I can tell from your grin that you’re amazed I’m still happy about the passing compliment.
But I am.
Because, you see, I can live on a good compliment for days. Weeks.
Maybe months. But let’s not test that, shall we?