Warning: extreme romance up ahead. If you don't like that sort of thing, don't read. This story is loosely based on my own parents. And props to anybody can guess who sang the song used in this fic. ;-)
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I'm in my office. Meet me there at 8:00. And dress nice.
I stare at the note taped on the back of my door and shake my head. It's dress nicely, not nice. Then again, Cid hadn't majored in English like I had. Math was more his thing. Where direct objects and gerunds lost him, functions and square roots threw me. He teases me every time I accidentally miscalculate something on our grocery list, and I tease him every time he ends a sentence with a preposition. It's a good bargain.
Looking back at the note, I frown. Why did Cid want me to meet him in his office so late? We haven't even eaten dinner yet. If he had something to tell me, why couldn't he just do it in our room?
Wait, I remember.
Today is the sixteenth. Our anniversary.
I mentally slap myself for forgetting. I walk into our room and strip down to my underwear. Nobody else is here, so there's no need to be modest. I tear through my closet, looking for something "nice" to wear. I pull out a black skirt and white blouse and quickly slip into them. I examine myself in the mirror. No, I looked like a fifteen-year-old. Beige dress. No, too plain. Blue dress. No, too flashy. Frustrated, I sit on our bed. Today is our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Why couldn't I just find one decent thing to wear?
Then I laugh at myself for being so silly. Cid and I survived twenty-five anniversaries, for goodness sake. Would it make much of a difference if I didn't show up for just one not looking like a supermodel? But something in the back of my head says yes, I have to look good for tonight. Today is special because twenty-five is a special number. It is one half of fifty and one fourth of a hundred – and the first step to eternity.
Twenty-five years ago, I would've never imagined that I would feel this way about Cid Kreimer. I can't blame myself; I was young. I've discovered that many young people have the wrong idea about love. Love isn't passion. It's not about getting that feeling in your stomach every time you look at him. For me, that feeling passed long ago. Love is about still laughing at his stupid little jokes, even twenty-five years later. Love is about telling him to stop his annoying habits over and over again, even though you know he doesn't listen.
For instance, Cid has absolutely horrible eating patterns, which irritate me to no end. He regularly raids the mini-fridge at odd hours of the night. Once I caught him eating plain sour cream with a spoon. He said he wanted to save me some trouble by fixing dinner for himself. And I laughed at that.
Because you see, love is about acceptance. Love is about embracing the whole person, flaws and all. And Lord knows that Cid has flaws.
I saw these flaws from the day I met him. We both went to the same high school, but we lived worlds apart. I was what most people would call a "trust fund baby," sporting the latest fashion trends on a daily basis. On the other hand, Cid couldn't care less how he looked, and wore pretty much the same shirt every day. He was the president of the science club and math club, something that automatically labeled him as the class nerd.
But Fate is unpredictable, and we found ourselves partnered up on a school assignment. It was a major class project, and we spent a great deal of time with each other to complete it. I don't even remember what the project was about. Something about the mating patterns of Grats…? Anyway, when we were finished, Cid asked me to go to the movies with him. I declined politely. But that didn't stop him. He asked a second time, a third time, a fourth time. The fifth time, he got on his knees during history class and sang to me. Let me tell you: Cid is a terrible singer. But he made me laugh, and because of that, I said yes.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had Cid not been so persistent, or if I had not said yes. How would things be different? Would I have found someone else? Perhaps, and perhaps I might be as equally happy as I am now. But this is the path given to me, and I do not regret taking it at all.
When we started dating, people started asking me what I saw in him. I would stand up to these people defiantly and say: why not? After all, he was good-looking, in a disheveled geek sort of way. And he was undeniably intelligent. But most of all, he was good to me. He adored me, but did not idolize me. And I adored him, oddly enough, because of his flaws: his loveable, almost endearing flaws. Like his abnormal fear of spiders. Or how he never wears colors that match unless I help him dress. How ironic that I found perfection in his imperfection.
But one redeeming quality that Cid has is that he knows how to dance. I remember our first slow song together. I even remember the song that played in the background…
I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns and stumbles and falls
Brought me here
Where was I before the day
Where I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it, every day
That was the first time we had ever held each other like that. I almost fell asleep on his shoulder. I was so at peace.
I finally pick out a nice silver dress that glimmers in the light. It doesn't look as flattering on me as it did three years ago, but it still suits me fine. Cid always said that was his favorites dress, although I suspect it's only because it's one of the few dresses I bought on sale. He's very stingy about money.
I style my hair and touch up my makeup. With one last perfunctory glance in the mirror, I walk out our room and lock the door. Then I begin my trek across the silent Garden halls towards Cid's office. Some cadets are still running around, even though they should have been in their evening classes, but I do not stop to reprimand them. Let kids be kids.
A week before our wedding night, Cid and I had discussed children. We both wanted them. It was just a matter of how many. We both compromised and settled at three. But when the doctor told us that I was unable to bear children of my own, those dreams were lost. But Cid, being the math genius that he is, analyzed our situation and came up with a solution. The orphanage was his idea.
This was during the first Sorceress War, and Cid had just been enlisted by the Galbadian army as a tactician. He trusted me enough to let me set up the orphanage by myself. I chose the Centra coastal region because I had always loved that area, an area where I wanted my children to grow up.
Although they are not my own, I am proud of my children, all of them. I watched them through a mother's eyes, not a caretaker's eyes. I wanted everything for them. When the Sorceress War was over, Cid came back, and together we helped teach our kids. Cid is a good father. Quistis received her tactical genius from him. Selphie inherited his spirit. Zell absorbed his passion. Seifer, his dreams. Together they were like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Together they made the pieces of my husband.
I know now that my inability to have babies was a blessing in disguise. Cid and I raised strong children, and that was a bond we shared together. After the second Sorceress War, I was sure that our children could take care of themselves. Cid knew this before I did, when he handed the reins of Balamb Garden to Squall – our son.
Many people think my husband is a coward. After all, he ran away from the Balamb-Galbadia Garden battle, didn't he? I chuckle amusedly whenever anybody says this. I know that Cid likes to run when he sees no other way out. But how many times had he held his ground against adversity? How many times had he given up something for the sake of others? He is not a selfish man, and I know for sure that he is not a cowardly man. When he discovered that Ultimecia had possessed me, he decided with a heavy heart to wage war against me. I knew that decision had hurt him deeply, in ways I cannot imagine. But he knew sacrifice well. He sacrificed a lot to be my husband.
I press the elevator button and wait. I hum our song silently to myself.
And I know, that I am
I am, I am
The luckiest
Around the corner, I can make out the shadows of two young people groping and kissing in the dark. They don't notice me. I smile to myself and say nothing. I was once young too, and I remember being in lust.
When thinking about the subject of marriage, sex inevitably comes up. Cid and I don't discuss this topic much, but it's not to say we don't enjoy it.
The first time Cid and I ever made love was in college. He had transferred to my school just to be with me. Like I said, he sacrificed a lot to be my husband. It was late at night, and I was in his dorm. His roommate was out for the night, and we were both laying on the bed, listening to the radio. He leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed back. The song was playing on his stereo in the background.
What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on your street where you lived
Maybe I'd be outside
As you passed on your bike
Would I know?
And in a wide sea of eyes, I see one pair
That I recognize
I think movies and romance novels give young people the wrong idea about sex. Men don't just sweep women off their feet, and they don't make mad, passionate love in the dark immediately. Sex is a very humbling experience. I don't think I've ever laughed so much in my life as I did on that night. What can I say? It was dark, we were both virgins, and neither of us had a clue of what we were doing. It was through years of mistakes and laughter together that we finally achieved something even remotely close to a scene in a romance novel.
Sex is wonderful thing because it forces you to hide nothing. At first, Cid was ashamed of the fact that he very little chest hair. I told him I didn't care, and in return, he told me he didn't care about that ugly, ugly birthmark I have in my inner left thigh. Over the years, we have both showed signs of aging. Cid's belly has begun to grow, and there is cellulite in my legs where they once were smooth. But despite all this, Cid still holds me just the way I like, whenever I like.
With a crisp ding, the elevator arrives. The doors open, and I step inside. With a loud whirring noise, the elevator carries me to the third floor.
Once, Cid and I got into a huge fight near this elevator. We were renovating the complex when we first started building Balamb Garden. Cid had been going over the blueprints and noticed something strange. He accused me of changing the blueprint behind his back. Of course, I denied it, but the damage was done. It just snowballed from there. One thing led to another, and a nasty exchange of words took place that day. We both yelled things we only half meant. Three hours later, I was in the Balamb Hotel, sobbing over the cheap hotel sink.
I spent a week in that hotel bed and not by Cid's side. I honestly thought that it was over. The only thing I remember from that week was sitting near the bed and crying and ripping apart pictures. I didn't even shower.
But at the end of the week, there came a knock on my door. I opened it, and there was Cid, on his knees and a huge bouquet of roses in his hand. And he was singing.
I love you more than I have ever found
A way to say to you
Next door there's an old man
Who lived to his nineties
Then one day, he passed away in his sleep
And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away
I'm sorry, I know that it's a strange way
To tell you that I know we belong
Didn't I mention that Cid was a horrible singer? But at that moment, I didn't give a rat's ass. I flung the bouquet of flowers aside and threw my arms around his neck. I think I was choking him, but he didn't say anything. He placed his arms around my waist and rested his head on my chest. It was a crazy sight for anybody that watched us. An oily, pasty lady who hadn't showered in week holding a messy, disheveled man as if her life depended on it. And my life did depend on it.
That's one of the reasons why self-help books annoy me. They instruct couples to avoid all conflict at any cost, as if their relationships were well-oiled machines. But marriages aren't supposed to go smoothly. If two things are smooth, they do not stick, they do not bond. If Cid and I did not fight, I would not love him. It is our disagreements that make us a stronger couple. It reinforces our knowledge that despite all our differences, we would still be together…for twenty-five years and beyond.
The elevator dings. The doors open, and I make my way down the hall to Cid's office. I put my hands on the heavy doors and push. I look at the room, and I gasp. Cid had transformed it completely. White sheets hung about the room with candles placed in strategic places, casting shadows that danced about the walls. In the middle of the office was a small table with food on two dishes. Spaghetti and meatballs. My favorite. I had always known that Cid was a romantic at heart.
My eyes dart around the room. Where was Cid, anyway?
From behind a curtain, my husband emerges, a huge smile on his face.
"Do you like it?" he asks.
I return a smile. "I love it."
Cid pulls up a chair with exaggerated gentleman grace. I sit down, and he takes his place across the table. I cannot keep my eyes off his face. The candles give off a certain…glowing effect, and it accentuates the features on my husband's face very well.
Oftentimes I wonder why Cid still stays with me. After all, he is a very powerful man. He could easily pick out a much younger, more attractive girl and run off with her. And I wonder sometimes what he sees in me. I am not half the person he is. I am much more selfish and much pettier at times. But part of my affection for him is my trust. I trust that he sees something worthwhile in me, as I see a beautiful man in him.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Cid says and gets out of his seat. He strides over to the CD player nearby and presses play. He grins. "Music. Remember this song?"
Somebody once told me that love was all about luck. You just happen to meet the right person in the right time.
I know that I am, I am…
I am the luckiest.
If love is luck, then I rolled all sevens.
"Happy anniversary, Edea."