i had a conversation with S. the other day, and she told me about how her brother married a girl before he had lived with her.
S. said that her brother calls her every other day, complaining about things that his wife does, things that are mundane but matter a whole lot.
i think i told you once that i felt like we were always going through something. but when i look back on it, i realize fondly that i know how you will react in these situations, and i like the familiarity of knowing how you take care of things, the way you think through them with reason.
even though there were some very dark periods, there is a familiarity to your pragmatism, a familiarity to your emotion, a sweet expectation to the way you leave your wet towels on the bed and your empty coke bottles on the coffee table.
there was a growing tenderness to the way you would touch my belly when it hurt, or kept me company when i lay on the restroom floor with pain.
the little things are the ones that helped drive my heart back to you.
the incredible warmth of your hands whenever you touched my skin. i remember maybe only one time when i took your hands in mine and they were cold. but even when your hands are cold, they are not clammy. they are smooth, like rocks in a riverbed.
the way your hair feels between my fingertips.
the roundness of your eyes, the slight droopiness at the corners. it was in your eyes that i could tell you loved me, the way they would soften across the room. i could tell the times you felt nothing for me, and the times you felt everything.
your expression when you’re driving
the way your face changes with embarrassment, the cute kind, where you smile in a square shape
i used to think that the methodical way you spoke was analogous to hardness, but you are just that way. your enthusiasm comes in volume more than animation, and your animation comes in your hands.