I love him
I really do. I love him. And he loves me. No, it’s more than that. He adores me. I can tell he does by the way his eyes follow me, always locked on my figure as I sashay through my day, pretendingly oblivious to his attentions. He can’t say it though, because he’s a man’s man, my man. More musk and masculinity than you’d extract from that little sac in front of a musk deer’s penis. More hunk than the Hulk, and.. well, that’s enough of that. Let’s just say an off-hand hello from my man will have you pushing your pelvis into the nearest anything hard and unyielding. You won’t have a choice, and I forgive you in advance for your trespass. That’s my man. And I love him.
Some couples share “when we met” stories, like soft, puke-up fairy floss wrapped around the threadbare stick of their empty lives. Our when-we-met story doesn’t get better with the retelling. It’s just two people accidentally meeting and somehow ending up together. I’m actually quite proud of it, simply because its bland ordinariness shows we were able to rise above gut instinct and build a love based on mutual respect and love for perfection. I like perfect, and that’s who I married. But the way we met.. Well, it was as far from perfect as your want is from my desire. We met online, when he replied to my advert asking for help trimming the Eucalypt taking over my front yard. We argued about the cost, the timeframe and the cleanup. We argued about every little facet of that transaction. We probably argued more forcefully when I accidentally wandered outside dressed ever-so-slightly more attractively than I was when I opened my door to see his muscular shoulders fill my entry hall doorframe. We certainly argued louder over the best way to treat the stump remnants, after I’d taken him light refreshments and an ice-cold glass of cider. Let’s just say we didn’t hit it off in any way you could put your finger on. Our attraction grew from a mutual aim at perfection, and you and I both know that you simply can’t have two versions of perfection. There can only ever be one. My one. And he has come to see that - I just know it to be true, and I know it with an absolute certainty you could gift wrap and present to the President. Yes, our when-we-met story proves it wasn’t a youthful love-at-first-sight fling. We were meant for each other. It just took a while for both of us to see it that way.
Sometimes I will cut the crust off his sandwiches or slice his carrots so thinly they are like matchsticks. Other times I’ll write little notes of love and encouragement and hide them in his kit, his car or his clothing. Little things like that help keep the spark strong, and I get a thrill from imagining his face when he stumbles on my love and lust messages while he’s deep in the middle of going about his work-day tasks. He did the same for me once. It was a beautiful note, full of tenderness and concern for me and my day. I keep it right there, in front of my stapler. Every time I see it, my day brightens and my breath comes in little stabs of happiness. Other people keep run-of-the-mill holiday snaps or those goddam awful posed portrait shots, but not me. I like something a little different, something personal and unique to me.
Today’s the day my love for him slides hot and wet over anything that’s gone before. I’m going to propose and he’s going to be so excited, he’ll struggle to keep his composure in front of you and Robby and Marcy and Kym. You’ll see it in his eyes, that love for me. I’m so excited, I can hardly keep still. You’re in on the secret though, because I really can’t keep it secret from everyone the entire time. I’m not Wonder Woman, you know? But I’m definitely his Wonder Woman. And this afternoon, he’s going to be my Superman.
