He’s been here for a week – no longer than that now. These days are bleeding into each other, just a jumble of volleying from here to there, eating gumbo in bed, watching interminable tv shows, fucking. You know – that good shit. It’s been a haphazard string of days, an unintentional cohabitation, and at this point I’ve come to realize: I’m having a good time.
Which isn’t always necessarily the case. Lovers, stripped down to their day to day routine, don’t always hold up in the sunshine and the gray days and the early nights, back to back to back. To fuck someone is fun, but to know someone – that’s where the real risk lies.
We’ve glided into something comfortable. Oh, I can be myself when he’s here. I sleep better when he’s here. It’s easier to wake up with him next to me. Now, I have seen him in his mundane moments. I know who he is in moments of bad moods, when I’m too sleepy to keep going, as I’m leaving for work, as he’s coming back home. When he’s brushing his teeth and I’m taking too long to get dressed. When he’s getting hungry and I’m too lazy to drive anywhere. When my room’s a mess and my period’s coming. Now I know him in these ways, and it hasn’t diminished anything at all. It’s a love that lacks glamour but is still love nonetheless, deep in the nooks and crannies of quotidian existence. Apparently there is gold down there. I have seen the beauty in nothing remarkable at all, and I want to hold it close to me and keep it there forever before it becomes just another moment that slips out of reach.
Now, I can trust that everything about him I don’t already know would never make me love him less, even if he never tells me, and even when he does, it’s always a beautiful moment. Getting to know him is getting to know me, and he is showing me the best parts of myself.
I owe you one.