The race

 

It's about a twenty minute walk to Marro, our favourite restaurant in the next  village. When Rick and I learned the menu du jour was roast chicken, cooking seemed undesirable and cleaning up even less so. 

We set out on a rare spring day. Vineyards, mountains and yellow fields of rapeseed are on one side of the road. More yellow fields, the lake and mountains on the other. 

I do the walk often, but if I'm at one of the five bus stops between the house and the restaurant when a bus pulls up, I feel the universe is telling me to ride. We passed the Savonnière stop at 12:13. The bus was due at 12:17.


 "Do you want to wait?" I asked him.

"Will it be on time?"

"This is Switzerland," I answered.

Instead he challenged me. He would walk the rest of the way I would take the bus. There was no forfeit.


12:15 no bus.

12:16 no bus

12:17 no bus

I could see Rick in the distance, walking only slightly faster than we had walked together.

12:18 no bus. Rick was out of sight.

12:19 the bus came around the bend.

 

I hopped on for the next three stops. Rick was waiting for me. I've learned something new in our relationship. 

He can smirk, but at least he does it in a loving fashion.