He's not overly stylish in dress and has no desire or need to change his crooked bottom row of teeth. His is a lived-in guys house. He doesn’t share some of the big things that happen to or around him or many emotions good or bad, unless prompted. He’s not the party-waiting-to-happen social flirt I am.
But he laughs out loud when we watch episodes of “The Young Ones” and makes coffee on the mornings I sleep over and was there to put oil in the car when the red-neon-genie-lamp looking icon began flashing Saturday. He plays the 80’s new wave station when I ask for music and always keeps butcher shop bacon on hand for breakfast. I ask a lot of him. And I’m still not convinced that I'm wholly with him. And vice versa. We’re together because we like and love each other and like and love having company and care and the other to watch movies and have dinner with. And maybe that’s what it is. What it's supposed to be.
I know I feel calmer with him to rely on. I know it feels good when we're together, few pressures and a time to recharge. A lazy Sunday spent on the couch (one I would pay him to haul away). I know I have real fear of real issues and the times when I say too much, or want to say more but feel it's better I don't because, damn, if I can't talk and talk.
He told me once I deserve to be loved.
Maybe that's it.