Love in a Shoebox

Our first, tiny apartment. You called it our love nest.
You know what you told me once, when that car alarm was going off in the parking lot again and it was the middle of the night and there were folks yelling outside and we couldn't sleep worth a damn? When we were living in that one bedroom shoebox where only one of us could fit in the kitchen at a time and we lived on spaghetti and Mexican popsicles? When the only furniture we had was a card table and that futon couch from K-Mart that bottomed out on you while we were watching TV one night? When we were packed into that small bed like a couple of sardines, always tripping over each other in the darkness?

You told me that this was how you knew we were going to make it. You told me you would always remember how happy we were, living in a one bedroom apartment in a crap part of town, hardly making ends meet and eating the same cheap dinner every night.  If we could be happy like this, you said, we'll always be happy.

If some drunk justice of the peace had stumbled into our room at that moment, I would've married you right then and there.