The One with all the Love

When he rolls over and wraps his arms around my nakedness during the early hours of morning.

When he takes out my compost without me asking.

When we are stuck in our apartment during a late July tropical storm and the prompt is to draw the other person. When he draws a picture of me where my head is made of mountains and the ocean is my body. It is the most beautiful way I have seen myself. Almost like he knew who I was before I did. A shooting star he makes my soul.

When he sends flowers to my work for our first Valentine’s Day and I finally realize what it feels like to have flowers delivered to you at work. It feels like falling in love all over again.

His long black robe. His Batman onesie. That black button-down shirt, when it’s unbuttoned two buttons. Better yet, no clothes at all.

His man bun. His hair. After he washes it, after it dries, and the color is a deep brown reminding me of the hair of a horse I once rode. I love pulling his hair back in my hands, petting it down around his face. When my grandmother calls one day and asks, “When is your boyfriend going to cut his hair?” I say back, “I hope never.”

When he learns origami, and leaves the new designs on my desk when he finishes them.

When he leaves me a note or texts me back to the hundreds, maybe thousands, that I wrote or sent to him without ever receiving an answer. It doesn’t matter. I will always remember that one. Whether it be that picture he once drew or that poem he once wrote. It is those few that will stand out compared to my many. I try to be more selective with what I say.

When we are sitting at a bar in Key West and he is talking to the man sitting beside us and he goes to introduce me as the girl who has traveled the world. It shows he is proud of me. That I can be me without him. Some men never get past that.

When he scrapes and shovels the snow off my car. When he salts the porch steps. When he takes down the Christmas tree but forgets the garland.

He is one of the smartest people I know and has nothing to show for it. No degree. No passport. Nothing. If you hear him talk about the state of the world or the stock market or the theories of Nikola Tesla or the proper measurements of how to construct a house you will know he is more than your average Joe. You will know he is just slight of a genius.

When I come home after a sail to a candle lit dinner of tofu wraps and red wine. Ice cream in the freezer, sex on the side.

When he talks to the cats in his cat voice. When he chases them around the house and slips on his slippers. When they sleep by his feet in his arm chair, paws on the back of the other.

When he turns on all the Christmas lights before I get home. When he lights my candles and burns the incense before I get a chance.

When he holds me in a long hug, in the middle of the living room, after I get home from work. When the stress falls off my shoulders and his hands rest wrapped around my hips. If I could pick what every hug should feel like it would feel something like this.

How he can eat pizza with ranch for every meal if he had too. A full glass of milk to wash it all down.

When he swears the answer to 11×11 is 122 and I know it is 121 and we bet on it and he looks it up on his phone and we can’t stop laughing because we both know I am right. For once the genius is wrong.

The smell of his sweat. It smells like wood. It shows he has been working hard. It shows he can work with his hands. I love men who can work with their hands. It is a dying art.

When he squeezes the tooth paste to the top of the tube when it is getting low.

When I see mums at the grocery store and can’t buy them because I don’t have enough money. When he pulls them out of his truck when I’m not looking and puts them on the porch steps. He says thank you for being so amazing. Thank you for being his Wonder Woman.

When he helps me with all of my wardrobe malfunctions. When he zips me, ties me, laces me up. It makes me want to take it all back off.

How his body feels against mine in the ocean. How I can climb up his shoulders, wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me through the water. He is my legs, my movement, my wave. I bought a pool membership about a month ago so I could feel him in that way again.

The tattoo he regrets on the right side of his chest. I love tracing its outline with my fingers.

When I stand him up two different times. When I ignore his calls and don’t respond to his texts. When he still insists we go out, grab a few beers, go to the beach. When he picks me up after work, swim trunks on, and a cooler full of Coronas. When he takes me to the beach, our beach, the one we will have our first kiss on. The one where he will ask about me, and let me do the talking, and ask me about my travels and the things I like to write about. The beach where the sunset will light the sky with puffy clouds and make the day feel more like dawn than dusk. And as we wade out into the water, asking if we believed in heaven, we didn’t have to answer. We were already there.

Emerging from our apartment after three days of rain, to find the most glorious ice pink sunset. We run to the dock, in our nightgown and boxers, our hands held in union. We dance to the sound of the waves hitting shore, the calmer waters ready to come.