I think about her Sunday morning, after the radio plays "(50 shades of) Grey Foggy Day."
It's the first time she's waltzed through my mind in more than a year.
I'm transported back to when we fell in love at first sight. I imagine her curves, her radiant glow and her voice, melodic and moving.
Sitting in a warm car, in a long queue for a coffee, such memories rush back and I swim in a pool of beautiful nostalgia — the magic of getting to know each other, the playful times in front of strangers, the otherworldly experience of being at one with each other.
We had spent a lot of time together and never tired of each other, but with my mounting commitments — house + wife + child + work — we drifted apart, far apart, to the point where I haven't held her in a couple of years.
That breaks my heart, really.
She was willing to keep going, despite my responsibilities. But I could have no part of that. Family had to come first, and there was little time for anything to be second.
But sitting behind four SUVs — three of them black — with an Émile Benoit song being covered on the radio, I pine for her, and long to caress her neck, to softly press her strings, to spend an hour alone with her doing the things we used to do.
That's it. After I finally get my coffee, I'm going to see her.
My boy is asleep, so attaching that bookshelf to the wall so he can't tip it over can wait an hour.
So can the lawn mover and the whipper-snipper, the trowel and the work gloves.
And there's no panic to hang those pictures for my wife, put up those new blinds or write this column.
Yup, commitments be delayed, I'm putting the works of it on hold and then picking her up for the fun and frolic of the old days.
Always excited by the risk, we'll sneak into the basement bedroom of my house and lock the door behind us.
I'll unzip her, spread out the sheets and ensure she's prepared for what we're about to do.
Then, I'll put her on my shoulder and begin my indulgence.
I'll hold her tightly and we'll waltz, perhaps for 15 or 20 minutes.
If we're in sync like in the past, that will lead to rapid beats and ignite a passionate inferno that radiates a scorching heat and sound.
My wife will hear us, and so will many neighbours.
But I don't care — this will be an hour of reckless abandon, of throwing caution to the wind, of caving into my inner desires.
I'm going to play my fiddle.
Steve Bartlett apologizes to E.L. James. Email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. Follow his tweets at SteveBartlett_