For a Fact, Fiction Is Ruining His Romance

“Wanna go out?” I ask my wife.

“Like on a date?” she answers warily.

Notice how women never say “yes” to your first question. They need to string you along a little first, to let you twist in the winter wind. It’s the first thing they learn.

“Yeah, like on a date,” I say.

“When?” she asks.

See what I mean? Every time I make a statement, she comes back with a question. Abrupt. Tough. Like they do on those cop shows. Like that Det. Sipowicz.

“We could go . . . whenever,” I say with a shrug.

“Whenever?”

“Yeah, whenever,” I say.

“I’m busy then,” she says.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the bedroom, here comes Valentine’s Day, the final exam on romance, a day of danger and intrigue and broken hearts. At least in our house.

“I just thought we could go out,” I say. “That’s all.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I grumble.

After three kids and 20 years together, she’s playing hard to get. Good timing on her part, because that’s just what I want to do, pursue her all over again on the week before Valentine’s. As if the first time around didn’t almost kill me.

She is lying on her half of the bed--the perfumed side of the bed--reading a Nicholas Sparks novel late into the evening, which isn’t exactly good news either on Valentine’s week, having your wife read some book about beaches and sailboats and finding love in unexpected places.

I’m pretty sure it’s fiction, this book, because if you’ve ever been to a beach--Normandy, for example--you know it’s not the kind of place for romance.

“This is a book,” she says, without looking up, “that I could stay up all night with.”

Thanks, Nicholas Sparks. Thanks, Kevin Costner. Just what other guys needed on Valentine’s week, Sparks’ weepy book, followed by Costner’s weepy movie. Just what we needed, this “Message in a Bottle.”

“Is it really that good?” I ask.

“It’s pretty good,” she says, her eyes in love with the page.

First, Sparks hit us with “The Notebook,” about some guy with a notebook. Now there’s this “Message in a Bottle,” about some guy who drinks a lot. Or puts messages into bottles. Or collects corks. Something.

Whatever it’s about, women go nuts for it. Like potato chips and Diet Coke. They’ll feed on it for days.

So just out of curiosity, I lean over and steal a look at “Message in a Bottle.”

“I was thinking of cooking some steaks on the grill,” the Costner character in the book says. “But then I got to wondering if you ate things like that.”

“Are you kidding?” the female character says. “You forgot I grew up in Nebraska. I love a good steak.”

“I happen to make the best steaks in the world,” the Costner character says.

“Oh, you do, huh?”

“I’ll prove it to you,” he said, and she laughed, a melodic sound.

That’s the stuff this guy writes. All the time. He’s written one book already; now there’s this new one.

Three billion women have read them. Not one man has read them. Even the author probably doesn’t read them. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Nicholas Sparks is ruining romance for the rest of us.

“A three-hanky love story,” says a review near the front of the book.

“For those who love a love story,” another reviewer blubbers.

“I think I’ll get a sandwich,” I tell my wife.

“I’ll think about it,” she mutters, her eyes still glued to the page.

So I go to the kitchen to get a sandwich, which is where I find the boy, also getting a sandwich. A week before Valentine’s, and all he can think about is food.

“You know, Sunday is Valentine’s,” I warn the boy.

“So?” he says through a mouthful of white bread.

“Just do the right thing,” I tell the boy.

“What’s that mean?” he asks.

I could save him some misery and tell him the things I know. Like how women’s eyes see an extra dimension. How they can see heat. How they know exactly what we’re thinking. How their side of the bed always smells like roses. Better he find out for himself.

“Why doesn’t Kevin Costner make movies like ‘The Postman’ anymore?” I ask.

“I loved ‘The Postman,’ ” the boy says.

It’s true. Of all the critics, only the boy really loved “The Postman,” appreciated its clever shadings, understood its nuances.

“Me too,” I say. “I loved ‘The Postman,’ too.”

We stand there awhile, eating our sandwiches over the sink, which is the best place for guys like us to dine.

“So what should I get Mom for Valentine’s?” the boy asks, finally taking the hint.

“Surprise her,” I say.

“Like with a card?” he asks.

“Like with a bottle,” I say.

“Huh?” he says.

“Never mind,” I say. “Never mind.”

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is [email protected].