The closest we've come to words of affection is...
You're my girl.
I'm good with that.
The manfriend and I had just sat down to dinner Monday night, long enough to order a round, when the three-table next to us got up to leave. A middle-aged couple – a man and a woman, maybe a husband and wife or even brother and sister – and a much older gentleman. Tall and broad and well-dressed, yet still fragile and white, both his hair and skin. As he stood he needed assistance with his coat. He held the younger mans arm as he shuffled more than walked to the upscale pub door then out to the car brought around to the front by the woman. He stopped several times for achingly long seconds, hunching over as if to catch his breath or reeling from a tickle or punch to the abdomen.
Diners turned to look. Including me.
“Gosh, I hope he’s okay,” I said.
Then corrected myself.
“He’s with someone who’s taking care of him. He’s okay.”
That's real love. I'm good with that.