I want to be clear that I did research. I looked up parking. I looked up which vendors were cash-only. I screenshotted the festival map and put it in a shared album that Theo has never once opened. I did all of this because the Double Decker Arts Festival only comes once a year and I wanted to actually see some art instead of spending forty-five minutes circling the Square looking for a spot while Theo says "there's definitely something on the next block."
Theo's preparation consisted of one text sent at 11:43 AM on the day of the festival that read: "heading out, should be there by noon, also what is double decker"
I had sent him the link three weeks ago. I had mentioned it at dinner twice. I had said, verbatim, "it's Oxford's biggest spring thing, they close the whole Square, it's kind of a big deal," and he had nodded in a way that I now recognize as his "I am storing zero percent of this" nod.
So he shows up at noon — noon, when the setup has been running since the night before, when half of Oxford has already staked out their corner — wearing a flannel, because it was seventy degrees that morning and Theo apparently decided that counted as cool. I looked at him. I looked at the sky, which was already doing that Southern thing where it's beautiful and slightly threatening at the same time. I said, "It's going to be eighty-seven degrees by three o'clock." He said, "that's later, though."
The flannel was off by 12:40.
He carried it for the next two hours with the sleeves tied around his waist, looking like a man who had just invented the concept of tying a flannel around your waist and was very proud of himself. Meanwhile I had a tote bag, sunscreen, a water bottle, and a working knowledge of where the good ceramics vendor was set up. We are different people.
Here is what Theo contributed: He found us coffee from a place I hadn't noticed. He talked to literally every artist for so long that I actually learned things I wouldn't have stopped to learn on my own. He bought a small painting from a guy who'd driven up from the Gulf Coast, just because the guy mentioned he'd never sold anything at this particular festival before. The painting is honestly not very good. It's hanging in our kitchen. I love it.
At one point he stopped in the middle of the street, sweating through his undershirt, holding an empanada, watching a band set up, and said "okay I get why this is a big deal." And I wanted to be annoyed — I had been explaining why it was a big deal since March — but he was so genuinely delighted that it was hard to sustain.
The sky did get weird around four. That particular Mississippi afternoon green. I had already checked the forecast — Saturday had been flagged for potential hail, damaging winds, the full situation — and I had this information in my body, the way you do when you've been watching weather apps like they're a part-time job. I said we should head back. Theo looked at the sky, looked at his phone, and said "the Rebels swept LSU last weekend, I feel like the weather respects that."
I don't know what that means. We left anyway. It started raining about seven minutes after we got to the car.
He said "see, we're fine" as the thunder started.
I said "I know, because I checked the radar."
He said "and I respected your radar expertise."
This is, I think, the closest thing to gratitude I am going to get. I have accepted it.
The painting is crooked. I've straightened it four times and it lists back to the left within a day, something stubborn in the nail or the wall or the laws of physics as they apply specifically to Theo's decisions. It's fine. It's ours. He pointed at it last Tuesday and said "that guy's probably sold like ten more since then, we caught him early."
I did six weeks of festival prep. He had one empanada and a correct instinct about an unknown painter from the Gulf Coast.
This is my life. I'm keeping him.