As we were getting into bed last night, C. said, "Do you realize that I have spent the majority of my life with you?"
"No. I hadn't really thought of that but I guess it's true, isn't it?" After a few seconds, I added, "Are you happy?"
Without hesitation, with eyes closed and forehead scrunched against my shoulder, he smiled and vigorously nodded yes.
"Well I've spent the majority of my life with you too", I announced.
"No you haven't", he murmured, "Unless you've been lieing about your age."
"Sweet, if I were going to lie about my age, I certainly wouldn't have been padding it all these years, would I? I'm simply discounting and subtracting those years of my early childhood in which I was obsessed with and desired only sapphires, leopard skin and Troy Donahue. I think it's only fair to let me bundle up and sequester those years in the way that a freed prisoner might sidestep his time of incarceration while making cocktail chat, or an ex-addict might set-aside his pre-clean years or the way someone coming out of a coma might box up the years of oblivion and refer to them as a separate and distinct life. And incidentally, you would think that by now someone would have bought me at least a small sapphire, but no, I remain unadorned, like the last unpurchased Christmas tree on the street corner, late on the 24th, destined for blinglessnessdom."
It took me three tries to get that last word out correctly. Put the blame on the meds I am taking for the pain of my recent back injury (see below). C. missed the whole of my ramble for he had fallen asleep within seconds of closing his eyes. This is his way, and mine as well, for more than twenty years. At various times in the course of the night we will twist and turn, always making sure that some parts of our bodies are touching.
I have lost almost all the jewelry I have ever owned.
I am allergic to cats.
There is definitely no room for Troy in this bed.
"I'm happy too", I whispered into the top of his head.