MFB and I have had a long-standing difference of opinion about the chandelier, inherited from his parents, suspended over our dining room table. It was probably expensive when they bought it, and was, no doubt, in sync with the rest of their decor. But mauve-coloured pendants and glittery crystal beads are not what I want hanging over my head and the light was definitely not designed for the placement it had. Five flame-shaped bulbs throwing their weak light upward made me feel like a fish in an aquarium and I took to wearing reading glasses to see what was on my plate. For at least four years I have grumbled periodically about the thing.
There’s a lot in this house that reflects the taste of people other than my FB and almost nothing that gives a clue to mine. The balancing act that is his, mine and ours is delicate. We live in his house much of the time, in mine less often, and there is virtually nothing that belongs to the two of us. This isn’t the most important issue for either of us, but if our bank accounts were bottomless we might have been inclined to start fresh. There’s something to be said for accumulating evidence of a life shared. But putting the boot to the old stuff is not easy, and for sentimental reasons my FB has resisted replacing the light with something more contemporary and, well, illuminating.
But last Thursday, inexplicably and without discussion, he moved to a point of concession I had nearly despaired of him reaching. It might have had something to do with my industry of the previous few days, as a hutch was emptied pre-sale in order to make way for a new couch. Items that hadn’t surfaced in a decade were cleaned, polished, sorted according to their saleability, and strategically displayed so he had to pass them every time he went to the bathroom. This was intended to give the impression he could pluck the three pairs of brass candlesticks or any of the thirteen vases from the ‘outgoing’ pile, but it was actually an opportunity to come to terms with his loss and say his goodbyes. Like paying one’s respects to a defunct head of state.
Forty-eight hours later we went shopping. Wandering through the store, we were dazzled by the selection, but of the hundreds of light fixtures on display, no more than two or three were remotely appropriate.
Too wedding-cake 
Risky. My wrists could be ribbons too.
Like the only tree in my city backyard.
What I wanted my hair to do once upon a time
Designed by a military strategist.
My brain. Some bright ideas and a lot of distracting stuff.
A fake-melted-wax classic
All I could think of was the time I filled up a condom with bath water.
Chinese circus act or Swedish kitchen accessory?
But I quite enjoyed this juxtaposition 
Down to the last aisle and getting discouraged, I noticed my lover circling around a three-part dangling thing, examining it from all angles. It looked promising. In fact, it looked pretty much perfect but MFB was proceeding cautiously. My tendency to make enthusiastic and spontaneous decisions puts his brakes on, so I tried not to seem too eager. But after some Interrogative brow-raising, approving murmurs and a final comparison with a similar contender, the deal was clinched.
In the end, what delighted me most was not finding just the right light, but that despite our differences - the conflict between his need-to-keep and my aversion to clutter, not to mention our diametrically-opposed decision-making styles - we have pretty much the same taste. We argue about what to toss out, but there’s no disagreement about what comes in. As far as I’m concerned, that’s proof we were meant for each other.
It was up and switched on in a couple of hours, after the most energetic swearing I’ve ever heard from my mate. We sat down to dinner and for the first time in ages, I didn’t have to squint to see what I was eating. We clinked glasses in a toast to our new purchase and our mutual agreeableness. His eyes narrowed.
‘But it’s awfully bright in here, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have to put in a dimmer switch.’
