My cousin Ashley was in town visiting last week, and she and her friend Sarah came to eat and drink with us one night. We laughed and chatted and caught up with each other. She asked Martin and me how we met, and I recounted that tale for her, staring at him from across the kitchen, because after all these years, and after all this time spent, I cannot stop staring at him. Still.
She asked me what our secret is, but I didn’t really have an answer for her.
We aren’t mean to each other, for one. I have no contempt for him, nor he for me. I would never go out of my way to hurt him – not in a million years. His happiness is mine, too. I want… everything for him.
We don’t have date-nights per se – it’s just not a thing we do. Sometimes I make demands about doing something together – going somewhere different, or seeing different people – we don’t have the same social cravings, and if I’m happy doing things on my own, then he too, is happy. Mostly, he’s content to curl up next to one another, the way we have thousands of times before. It’s good, that. He’s a quiet man. We don’t have to talk if we don’t want. There’s comfort in closeness.
We comfort each other.
Of course, we’re not having sex every single solitary day, but we remain… connected. Close. When he walks past the couch I’m sitting on in the kitchen, he always touches me. My hand, if it’s outstretched to him, or my head or shoulder. When he walks into the room, I almost always gaze at him. A light smile is on my lips, and I return to my book.
You really wear those jeans, Martin…
When we pass each other in the hallway of our house, I grab his hand, and he threads his fingers in mine, and we squeeze… when I glance back over my shoulder, he’s looking back, too. Also smiling.
Gosh, he’s cute… and I like him so much. I really, really do.
I tell him he looks good, pyjamas hanging off his hips like that, all shirtless and taut… I don’t know how he maintains that shape, but I will take it. Plus, he always smells like a dream.
And he likes me, too.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he says out of nowhere, when I’m making eggs or something. I quickly bite into the air with my teeth. Come closer so I can pinch your bum.
Our stomachs touch when we hug each other. Always. We give good hugs. (And kissing is also very nice…)
It’s the slow burn. The smoulder. It’s always there. (Unless we’re fighting, but fortunately, these times are seldom.)
The other day, he said, “You have such a big heart, I feel so well-loved, and not afraid.”
I closed my eyes and breathed the words in. Oy, this man.
This morning he said, “Life is easy with you. I don’t want to be anywhere else than here because you are my home.”
Oof, I love it when you lay that shit on me…
“Fuck off,” he added, with a smile. “I will make you dinner when I get home tonight. Shrimps in Pernod cream…”
Yes, I will marry you, I said that day in May. We married in September. I had no idea that life would be a dream, sweetheart. I only hoped.
This is so much better than any dream I could have had, mon beau. I’m so glad it was you, too.
I look forward to my haircut on Saturday. Just like always.
Je t’aime. Toujours. Beaucoup, beaucoup.