I have an unspeakable adoration for the old couples I see walking the streets in their pastel sweaters and matching seafoam pants. My mind paints the portrait of their life in an instant. Both of them dancing in the rain to jazz music in a gentle haze of a lonely streetlight; sliding down kitchen cabinets holding their cramping stomachs constricting with bursts of laughter; singing at 2 am in the refrigerator light with tears balancing in the corner of their eyes. At some point in their long lives, their foreheads have touched in bright laughter and twilight has flickered in their eyes. Their wrinkles have formed through constant smiles and laughter. The secret language of cerebral certainty burning between them plainly says: I love you