Wrestle With Love
Joanne Faries
Ari and Elizabeth pushed and pulled furniture into place in their small London flat. She settled into her rocking chair. "Oh Ari, we can watch telly, and still visit with friends. It's cozy."
"Cozy means my bean bag chair is gone."
"Cozy means we're grownups, not flopped on the floor like university. Stop pouting and give me a kiss," Elizabeth puckered. Ari groused and gave her a proper buss.
"You want me to be straight with you, right?" Ari asked. "All candour?" She frowned but nodded.  "This has to go." He pointed at her macramé wall hanging.
He gave the outta here sign. She contemplated the art, arose, reluctantly removed it, and asked, "What now, Ari? No sports posters."
"No, I want our wedding picture there. I love you."
"I love you, too. But I need more time."
He stayed silent, and she returned to her rocker. "My family in Dublin …"
"… need to meet me." He finished her sentence. "Then it will all be fine?" His dark eyebrows narrowed and his brown eyes gleamed. She leaned to run her fingers through his long dark curls.
"Oh Ari. It's not like I say rosary every day, but conversion to Judaism … it's huge."
He flicked on the television. Shocked, the two cried as announcers pronounced, "They're all gone. Israeli athletes murdered at these 1972 Munich Olympics."
Elizabeth whispered, "All candour, Ari.  I love you too much. Yes." She stopped from crossing herself. "I will marry you."

First published: February, 2013
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