by Tiffany Razzano in The Guardian
When I opened the bathroom door, the first thing I saw were Julie’s pale, artfully crossed ankles, bobbing in the water. She was facedown in the tub and her long, blond hair was floating on the surface, spreading out around her head like a golden halo. Two bubbles rose to the top. Then one. Then none.
All I could do was imagine how my life was over if the woman I loved was gone.
A half-hour earlier, she had announced that she wanted to soak her aching muscles in an Epsom salt bath. So I had decided to bring her tea – ginger and turmeric do wonders for inflammation. When she hadn’t respond to my knocking, I had burst in, calling her name, and discovered her seemingly lifeless body.
With one hand, I slammed the mug onto the toilet seat and, with the other, I grabbed her shoulder and yanked her torso up out of the water.
Julie gasped for air and yelled, “You crazy person, what the hell are you doing?”
“What in the world were you doing?” My chest hurt and I began to sob.
“Epsom salt is good for the pores. It’s part of my secret beauty regimen.” She pulled me in close, soaking my shirt with her bathwater. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”
That’s when I really knew: I had to marry this woman. I couldn’t live without her being my wife and, screw what our state laws said, I wouldn’t. Domestic partnership wasn’t enough – and it never should’ve been, not for two people who love each other, not in any state. Keep reading . . .
Three Siren cheers for Tiffany and Julie and every LGBT couple who will soon hear wedding meows, and for the entire Sunshine state, who just took a big, happy skip toward a sunnier future for all.