Comfy

Leaving the risotto unattended far more times than any self-respecting cook ever would, I abandoned my post at the stove on countless occasions last night to instead wrap my arms around the exceptionally cute boy tapping away at his laptop in my dining room. There was a brief instructional lesson re: how to most efficiently chop an onion and his fulfillment of my request that he take on cheese-grating duties, but otherwise, M3 worked and caught up on the day's news while I rustled up dinner.

During the first of what would ultimately prove to be a lengthy series of very successful interruptions of M3's attempts at productivity, and as he placed a strong hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me towards him, I found myself remarking just how strangely wonderfully normal this almost immeasurable (yet not altogether surprising) degree of domesticity truly felt.

"It's life," he said.

And he was right.

Because absent the urgency that's both inherent and simply unavoidable when you have but one time-limited weeknight evening together...

Absent the unwelcome promise of one person's imminent and certain departure in the morning...

Absent the tragedy that customarily laces our farewells because we're never entirely sure when we'll next see one another...

He could do laundry.

And I could make dinner and later be overheard referencing said meal as *our* rice.

And we could go to sleep at a ridiculously reasonable hour because this night together, unlike all of the others that have come before, wouldn't be our last for an undetermined number of days that somehow always ends up feeling like weeks.

And I could, in an uncharacteristically inarticulate moment, find myself incapable of uttering anything more than a simple "Yup" when M3 looked into my eyes, whispered my name, and said "This is wonderful."

And I could come up behind him in the bathroom at 6:35am, in a scene straight out of a Gillette ad, and simultaneously attempt to pry him free of his towel, kiss his impossibly broad shoulders and ask about the scar on the left side of his neck.

And he could mention that maybe I should meet his sister and cousin this weekend, after all. (No fucking way and that's another post entirely.)

And I could watch bemusedly, over a cup of coffee, as he used the scientific technique of employing his forefinger and the counting of button holes to measure the appropriate length of his tie.

And I could set the microwave for another 30 seconds so the bowl of risotto he wanted for breakfast was actually warm when he tucked into it, even stirring it so it would be fully heated through.

And I could iron his shirt. Crappily.

And I could tell him, as he departed this morning for points south, that I hoped his meetings went well.

And that I'd see him tonight.

I could get used to this.