It’s a mild November evening, and we’re in the car, on our way home from work. We’re having this wonderfully engaging discussion. I’m really into it. I love that after six years together, we can still find new things to talk about.
You pause for a moment and look at me, with a fondness in your eyes that is usually reserved for certain intimate bedroom moments. It’s the smile of a man who’s looking at the woman he loves, and he knows it, and he wants to tell her. And I’m ready to listen.
“You know…” you say, comfortably, reaching across the gear shift to take my hand, as you’ve done so many times before. Your palm is warm, familiar, reassuring. I smile, waiting, knowing that you’re trying to find just the right words. And you always do.
“You know… I really don’t mind that you talk so much.”
…
I love you, too, baby. I love you, too.