I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. On the six month anniversary of our first date,

I thought to surprise my girlfriend with a bottle of champagne

and a charcutterie board.

I carefully chose imported cheeses and cured meats. A camembert from Normandy, Tom de Savoir from the French Alps,

Copa, prosciudo, Pistrami fromale, Christina, an array of olives, pitees, cornichons, and jams.

When she arrived, I greeted her with a Tiffany blue gift bag, a flute of bubbly and pointed to my

creation a paragon of culinary precision and abundance, I proclaimed, look.

Her eyes widened.

A pall of sadness befell her face.

She said she wasn't hungry and walked into another room. All my work in preparation, I was

confused. Turns out, I hit upon an emotional landmine.

She and her previous husband had made Friday evenings a ritual of shared cooking.

No matter the main course, a charcutterry board began the night's festivities.

This moment pricked my ears to other behavior that felt peculiar. Whenever Van Morris's moon dance came on the radio,

she rushed to turn the dial. Driving to the supermarket, she avoided a street in her neighborhood, though it was the quickest route to her destination.

She refused to place gravel even though it is my favorite pastime.

These were all vestiges from a previous marriage

that exposed an array of hurts,

reminders of a betrayal that was hard to shake.

To me, they were denied ecstasies.

But I understood.

...