He doesn’t talk much and I wish he would, about more than work or how his day was but his feelings, his feelings about me. So I asked, “What do you like about me?” He shared lovely words like fun, funny, thoughtful and good in bed (always a crowd pleaser). About how my ENFP compliments his ISTJ (and vice versa). I held a beat expecting he’d ask back.
He didn’t. But then I know him to be a man more of action than words.
Like when he picked me up for dinner Thursday night, handsome in a garnet-colored dress shirt, flat-front slacks and tie. In 10 months I’ve never seen him in a tie (and he wore dark – not white – socks). How he looked at me over the table during a festive and chatty 6-course wine dinner served family style. We found ourselves in a party of five others, and he found himself out of his comfort zone of strangers forced to mingle. He was wonderful, talkative and engaged yet always connected, holding my hand above or ankles touching under the table. Often, he simply looks at me and smiles, like he’s about to say something melt-worthy. He rarely does, but the look sounds lovely.
He doesn’t say much, but there was the morning he drove 20 minutes out of his way to my door to deliver a fresh scone from my favorite bakery on his way to work. Or the movies I mention once that he queues up in our “to watch” pile. Or his Valentines night surprise of dinner at the restaurant I first met him at. He opens doors and let me claim side of the bed first.
And after our lavish and luscious wine dinner, early into the next morning, he sat in bed and watched over me with round, concerned eyes as I writhed and wiggled and folded into a ball of child poses, trying to rock away pain. A muscle strain had been building and growing deep in my right hip, so much so by that evenng I could barely walk, and at the height of it found myself shaking hard from the surprise, the fear. I tried to steel and still myself so he wouldn't find me so weak, so human as to tremble from pain. I tried not to cry out as I danced over the duvet cover, up then down and side to side, desperate to find a place to softly lay bones that felt on fire. He didn’t orchestrate, he didn’t sleep. He simply watched over me, touched and stroked and told me in his actions he was there. It went on for nearly two hours when I finally found a spot, sitting straight up with my back against the headboard and legs outstretched, where I sat and did yoga breath of six counts in, exhale. He curled up and in, scooped in my arm and I told him, “It’s okay. Go to sleep.” Eventually we both did.
And he was there the next time I woke up.
He texted almost immediately after my late afternoon doctor’s appointment and X-rays the next day, asking how it went, what was next.
He doesn’t talk much, really.
He doesn’t have to.
*and girls who like boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they're girls who do girls like they're boys