There are things you don’t know about him. How his eyes change color depending on the light, how he turns to me when he’s sleeping and pulls me, subconsciously to him. How in the right corner of the family room is the terrarium he spent hours preparing. The one with indoor peat moss and imitation rocks and a water bowl for the salamander he found out wandering in the soil. How he always gives me the hot shower water, the last bite of pasta, the last lick of no-bake chocolate peanut butter cookies off the spatula. How he reaches for my hand in the movie theater, how he mumbles ‘I love you’ in the four a.m. darkness when I am half asleep. How after we fight he simply sits in the passenger seat of his brand new car. The one with the shiny black exterior and new headlights that he’s always wanted. And leaves the steering wheel in my control.
There are things you don’t know about him. How I can identify him by the sound of his footsteps, how the lines of his face change when he is focused or serious. How we are so different in the ways we speak and think, but how in his actions, like the car in park waiting for me, bridge the gap between us. And how simply, he is forgiven. And how simply, he is mine.