The Language of Love and Motorcycles

I like stories about falling in love. Ashley, my hairdresser met Carlos last November. The relationship started out slowly and in my hearing of it, methodically. She didn’t want it to burn too hot, too fast then burn out. She limited her time with him. Displaying her adulthood, she set boundaries and identified certain days and nights for dates so that each of them maintained their own lives. Slow and steady they grew closer, doing things she liked and doing things he liked.  Neither of them used the L-word.

My appointments with Ashley are staggered, haircuts every five weeks and color every eight. She works some weekends and he often works late shifts. In May, during a color appointment, she told me that a couple days before her "boyfriend" bought a motorcycle. I heard her disappointment in a sigh. Still wondering about the direction the relationship might take, she thought it meant that the little time their schedules allowed them would be further shortened while he rode with buddies. My heart ached for her, she held such high hopes for Carlos being "the one."

At my hair cut two weeks later, the sighs were replaced by sparkles in her voice and eyes. For their next date, he showed up with a new seat on his bike with room for two and a helmet for her.

What could say love better?