Reasons I love you

The way you narrate the cat's inner monologue in a tiny, put-upon voice — "I have simply never been fed" — at seven in the morning, every morning, like it's the first time it's ever been funny. It is.

How you read the back of every jar in the grocery store and report the findings to me as if I'd asked. I never asked. I would never stop you.

That you keep a running list in your phone of small things to tell me later, and that later is usually the second I walk through the door, shoes still on.

The way you tip the book toward the window for the last of the light instead of turning on a lamp — like the day owes you the chapter and you mean to collect.

How fiercely you defend the burnt edges of anything roasted. They're yours by treaty now. I have stopped fighting for the corner piece and I am happier for it.

That you say goodnight to the houseplants. Out loud. By name. And that you were embarrassed the first time I caught you, and then decided you weren't.

The half-second before you laugh — when your eyes have already got the joke and the rest of your face is just catching up. I would wait in that half-second forever.

How you hum while you make coffee. Not a real song. Just a sound you make when you're content. I have stood in the doorway longer than I needed to, only to hear it.

That you remember the exact thing I was anxious about, weeks later, and ask how it turned out — proof you were listening when I'd already forgotten I was talking.

And the plain, unremarkable fact of you on an ordinary Tuesday — barefoot, half-asleep, arguing softly with a crossword — which is, it turns out, the whole of what I ever wanted.