Both of us were previously married and we’ve each had the experience of caregiving the person we sleep with.
The night before we watched “The Case of the Grinning Gorilla,” a perfectly terrible Perry Mason episode about a chimpanzee hiding jewelry.
Love is a mirror. I witness myself, follow the ripples of me on his face. He is my muse. Ink on my brain. The mark on my heart.
Like a mail-order bride, I have learned to be his partner, we’ve made a home together and our collaboration is regenerative.
I slipped into a cleaning fantasy and broke my Suzy Creamcheese oath to never rummage through his stuff again.
For 11 months the garage was out of bounds, his personal domain, a secret kingdom hidden behind a veil of mist, motor oil and mildew.
This guy I’m living with is relentlessly cheerful. Sometimes I’m so ornery just seeing him smile gets on my nerves.