Sizzling, Fizzling Love

One lazy Fourth of July my roommate Wendy and I spent the evening at her friend Carole’s home, camped out on Carole’s deck where we had the perfect view of the city’s fireworks display. Carole’s husband graciously agreed to handle the food while we oohed and aahed.

It started out, like so many such presentations, to be not so much the fanfare promised but more of a sparkler-like fizzle.

“For this kind of excitement I could have gone out with Bill,” I grumbled, referring to a less-than-dynamic man Wendy and I knew from church. Bill, while nice, was notorious for his, shall we say, surprising ideas for dates. For example, he’d been invited to join us that night for a barbeque, but suggested instead that we go shopping.

No sooner had my mild complaining begun than the show picked up a little speed. Wendy, taking her cue from my comment, began comparing each burst of color with one of her past romances.

“That was Todd,” she said. “A never-ending explosion of excitement.”

Or, “Just like Jerry. Completely green with jealousy.”

Carole piped in when one firecracker, sounding like it would outdo all the previous, turned out to be a dud.

“My first marriage was like that,” she said, laughing. “A lot of promise, then…nothing.”

“That’s Danny!” I cried out, with the rocket that held a couple dozen small bursts of yellow and orange. “Lots of bright ideas, no follow through.”

I don’t remember if we ran out of men, quips or fireworks first, but we didn’t stop laughing for over an hour. Carole’s husband, who was graciously grilling and bearing with our comments about his gender, brought over our burgers.

“Aw, honey,” Carole said. “All the fireworks together aren’t as wonderful as you are.”

“You’re drunk,” he said wryly.

“On love!” Carole replied. In fact, we were only punch drunk; we hadn’t had a sip of alcohol.