What a life it is, to open my eyes in the morning and your face is the first I see.
You look so beautiful, even in sleep. The first hints of sunlight peeking through the blinds caress your face–illuminating them in all the right places. I snuggle closer, attempting to make as few of a movement as possible as to not wake you yet. Inching my face towards yours, I gently touch the tip of my nose to yours. Your face scrunches up for a split-second, and your eyes slowly flutter open.
A sleepy smile finds its way into your cupid-bow shaped lips. “Good morning,” you say, voice soft and husky.
“Good morning. I'm sorry, did I wake you?”
You shake your head, arms snaking themselves around my body to pull me closer. My head against your chest, you run your fingers through my hair. “We need to get out of bed,” you announce to no one in particular.
I trace circles with my thumb into your forearm. “We don't have to... right now.”
You chuckle into the crown of my head. “You're right,” you say before you kiss it. “Five more minutes, then.”
I nod, tucking my nose into the crook of your neck. You smell like sleep and fresh laundry.
“Five more minutes.”
*
You join me in the bathroom after you make the bed, picking up your toothbrush from where it was next to me in the mug by the sink. We brush our teeth side by side, you cheekily bumping your hips against me a few times. I finish washing my face and head down to the cold, empty kitchen first. At least the natural lighting makes it feel warmer.
I walk over to the coffee maker, grab the pot and fill it with water.
“Babe?” I call out. “Where did you put your coffee again?”
You holler from upstairs. “In the box on the counter with all the food–hold on, I'll be there in a sec!”
And you do, swiftly helping me unpack the box of food. Coffee is the first thing you take out to put in the coffee maker. While it brews, you join me in putting the boxes of instant food into the empty cabinets. It's all leftovers, though–things we didn't get to eat at our old homes, so we bring them to our new one to share. There are opened boxes of pasta and cereal, the latter I take to pour into a bowl for myself.
I pass you a mug for your coffee and you pass me a carton of milk from the refrigerator. We stand next to each other against the kitchen counter, me eating cereal and you drinking coffee, arms touching.
“Ah,” you pronounce, having taken your first sip of coffee of the day. “That's what I'm talking about. My day has officially started.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought your day had started already when you looked at this pretty face,” I say, fake-sulking into my bowl of Frosties. I'm the only thing you are obsessed with more than coffee, and I am obsessed with teasing you about it.
“And you, as usual, are right.” You kiss my temple and walk over to the breakfast bar where you set down your mug. Leaning against the counter, you turn to face me. “So, what are we doing today?”
*
I look over to where you are in the living room, unpacking boxes after boxes of knick-knacks to fill the small space in the heart of what we are calling our home. Your back is hunched over a bookcase, struggling to fit a screw. How do you look so capable and adorable at the same time, I wonder? It's the same look you had yesterday, when we moved in all our big furnitures with the help of a moving truck. You take some of my books from a box and put them in the shelves.
“Remember when you lent me a book and I didn't give it back to you for like a year?” you ask from across the room.
“Which book was it again?”
“I wanted to read Pride and Prejudice as a reference for a job I was doing. You said you'd lent me it and I didn't return it for a year when I'd already finished reading it in two weeks. Also, I didn't really have to read it because turns out they had a movie adaptation,” you say, chuckling to yourself. “I was already crushing on you big time back then and it's nice to have something of yours to hold on to, which, when I think about it now, is stupid, because I was already seeing you at least two days a week.”
“Stupid is right...” I say, putting the last of the plates from the box into the kitchen cabinet. “But it's kind of cute. I remember we were already dating when I saw that book at your place and I asked if it were mine. You finally gave it back!”
“Isn't it funny, though? How this book has been in your house, and then it's been at my house for a year, and then it was back at yours, and now, it's here?”
You stare at the now full cabinet of books for a while before breaking into a smile and shaking your head. I stare at your profile and think how it is indeed funny, that in this life, there are things that I have done and there are things that you have done, that somehow lead you to me, and I to you.
“You're just saying that to be romantic aren't you?”
“You love it when I'm being romantic.”
“I love you. That in and of itself is romance.”
You agree.
We are sweating, so I walk over to the back patio door to open it and let some of the breeze in. As soon as I do, I gasp. “Baby! Plants, we need to buy plants!”
“Okay, we'll stop by the plant store on our way to the supermarket,” you reply calmly. “I'm surprised it wasn't the first thing you thought of today. You get so excited about house plants.”
“Looking at the back patio now makes me realise how empty our house is going to be without some plants.”
“The ones you brought from your old place isn't enough?”
“No, of course not. My place wasn't even half this big! I already put some in our bedroom, in the windowsill, and by the front door. We need something for the bathroom, the living room, I'll have to think about what looks good on our patio first...” As I always do when I talk about plants, I start rambling. I run to where you are sitting and put my arms around your neck, enveloping you in a hug from behind. “Can we? Please?”
You nod and kiss my cheek next to your face. “Of course. I can't wait for this place to be filled with you.”
*
“This Swedish Ivy would look great on the wall cabinet.”
“Sweetie, I think that one's too big for the wall cabinet.”
“Oh, you're right.”
I sigh and put the potted plant back on the shelf. So many beautiful plants, very few spaces to put them in. I haven't really had a chance to think about it. You can tell that I'm overwhelmed with choices. You can tell many things about me by just looking.
“But...” you trail off, fingers gently rubbing an ivy leaf, “I think it'll look pretty good by the staircase, don't you think? Next to the patio door?”
“Yes! Absolutely!”
I happily cradle the pot of ivy in my arms as we continue walking down the aisle of lush greens. I look to find some flowers for a splash of colour.
“Wait, wait,” you suddenly say. I freeze in my spot. You pick up the camera hanging in front of your chest. “Stay where you are. You look so good in the light.”
“D-Do you want me to pose?” I ask, feeling my body immediately stiffen.
I used to think I was never going to get used to this–being the center of attention. Your attention. I remember the first few times that I met you, when I always felt embarrassed by the way you looked at me, so intently, every time I was speaking in conversations among our friends. You have always been very attentive, a good listener, and a keen observer. The pictures you take are very telling of the way you see the world: so innocent, so curious. I adore them. But to be the object of the same kind of attention you pay the world, scares me a little. You always say I have nothing to be scared of, and you're probably right, but I always think about how much of love is just looking and being seen, for to be seen is to be known. And here I am, and you see me, and you know me.
You shake your head, lifting the viewfinder to your eye. “No, you're perfect.”
The camera goes click and I can feel the tension evaporate from my muscles. You look at the preview and smile before coming up to my side to show me the picture you took.
A relieved chuckle leaves my mouth.
You nudge my side gently. “Pretty, right?”
If I was pretty, I am sure that you were the one that made me feel like I was. In your pictures and in your eyes. And in this picture, I am pretty–in the sense that I look like myself, the best version of it. And if that is love, I know I will learn to be brave.
*
You push the shopping cart behind me as we go through the produce aisle. I am walking slowly while reading a recipe for beef enchiladas. Tex-mex is something you often eat growing up and something I've grown to love since I met you, and I thought, what a very fitting menu for our first home-cooked dinner: nostalgia mixed with new beginnings.
I pick up a three pound bag of onion and show it to you. “Is this too many?”
“How many does the recipe need?”
“One.”
“Then get the one pound bag for two. Three pounds is too many onions.”
“But what if we want to cook something else that needs this many onions later on?” I ask him. “I'm just saying, can you have too many onions?”
“Do you really think we're going to cook something with five whole onions in the next, like, two weeks?”
I shrug and reach for the one pound bag instead. You chuckle at my surrender and ruffle the hair on top of my head as I put the bag inside the shopping cart to join the ground beef and bag of shredded cheese. We continue walking down the aisle, picking up garlic and tomatoes.
We stop at the spices aisle for the last of the ingredients. I am trying to pick between two brands of ground cumin. You put a jar of tomato sauce into the shopping cart.
“Do you think we should get wine?” you ask.
I look up from the bottles in my hand. “Do they sell good wine in this supermarket?”
“I'll go check. Do you need me to pick up anything else?”
“Can you pick up a bag of jalapeno peppers? And maybe some Hot Cheetos and Oreos as well?”
You pull your fist towards your chest with a barely restrained yes!, all smiles, like a child. I giggle at your apparent excitement at the mention of snacks. “You read my mind. I will be back with your jalapeno peppers in a bit, my lady.”
“If you do get wine, get red! And can you find that really good hot chocolate powder I like, please? Thank you!” I yell before you disappear to the next aisle, not before giving me a thumbs up at my request.
While you were gone, I finally decide on one brand of ground cumin, tossing it into the shopping cart before moving on to pick between two brands of rubbed sage.
*
“Are you tired?”
You ask me from the driver's seat, passing me a soft glance. I loll my head from where it was staring outside the window to face you. The sun is getting low in the sky behind us, soft orange spurts over splashes of lilac.
“Kind of...” I do a little stretch on the passengers's seat next to you. “I mean, we did quite a lot today. Are you tired?”
“Yes, but I'm also excited for dinner. We'll have some wine, get a little tipsy, and who knows, maybe then you'll get excited for something else...”
You move your hand from the steering wheel to rest on top of my thigh.
I groan in feign-exasperation, trying to not seem giddy about your proposal.
“John!”
“I'm just saying, we haven't done it in the new house yet, and we're bound to do it sometime soon anyway...”
I feel like rolling my eyes, but instead I look over at you, clad in a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans, back straight, eyes focused on the road in front of us. Looking at your profile makes me want to cry. You look like God took His time when he made you–every single detail of your being, every curve, every vein, begging to be worshipped, coming together as the perfect you. I reach out to touch your cheek, suddenly wanting to feel you.
I feel your breath hitch at the contact. “I know I was the one who started flirting with you,” you say after a moment, “but you're really making me nervous right now.”
I pull my hand back to lace my fingers with yours where your thumb was mindlessly caressing my thigh. “Is it a good kind of nervous, though?”
You sigh blissfuly, lifting our hands to kiss the back of mine. “The best kind.”
*
Supermarket wines don't taste as good at expensive ones, but they still get you drunk. Dinner was nice–we were both very hungry from running errands the whole day and ate without talking too much. After having washed the dishes, you and I are sitting next to each other on the sofa, sipping our second glasses of wine, admiring the new potted ficus next to the TV stand.
I feel a little lightheaded as I put my head on your shoulder, sighing.
“You okay?” you ask, reaching next to you to touch my arm.
Instead of answering, I sit up straight again and rotate my body to face you and cup your face. “Johnny...”
You smile at the name rolling off my tongue. “Yes, baby?”
“I can't stop thinking about how you and I have shared mortgages now...”
“You are so cute,” you say through a chuckle, raising a finger to boop my nose. “But, yeah, babe, we share mortgages now, and, hopefully, a home.”
“Right,” I laugh, only now realising how I must have come off. I lean back against the sofa and take another sip of wine. “But, like, you're my home... I mean, it is so great that now we're living together, sharing everything, spending the most time out of our days with each other, but even if it wasn't... here, even if we were somewhere else we don't know, I know that if I am with you, I am okay... and I am home.”
There is a moment of pregnant silence before you lean over and kiss me. Long, sweet, and tender. I think of how your lips are the kind I can kiss forever and how I don't have wait for forever because it's already here.
You pull away slowly, my fingers at a loss of where it was holding onto your shirt. Your eyes are hazy with booze and sleep. I smile and run my fingers through your messy hair.
“Hey,” I begin, “what do you think about getting a dog? We've always wanted one...”
You laugh and kiss my forehead.
“Come on, let's go to bed.”
*
Having changed into pajamas and washed my face, I sit on the bed waiting for you as you wash your face in the bathroom. Once you finish, you turn the lights off save for the night light, bathing the room in warm yellow hue.
You climb onto bed and fill the empty space next to me, the way you always do. You pull the covers over our bodies and under it, pull my body closer to yours. I fold into you, my feet unconsciously entangling itself with yours I can't tell where my body ends and yours begin. Your hand finds its way to the back of my head, gently running its fingers through my hair.
You kiss the top of my head and mumble sleepily, “Good night, baby.”
I listen to the hum of your heartbeat while your breathing steadies into a rhythm, and your hand on the back of my head slowly comes to a stop and falls onto the mattress. I have trouble sleeping so you always fall asleep before I do.
I lift my head from where it was tucked into your chest to look at your face. You look so tired, and even when you are tired, you are lovely. I count your eyelashes in place of counting sheep, hoping it'll lull me to sleep.
If so much of love is just looking, I take pleasure in these small windows of space and time, before a full morning and in the tail-end of a night, at the brink of my consciousness, where I shall immortalise you in these images I capture with my eyes. I think about how, starting today, I will need not remember you for a long time, because you are always with me, until you are not.
“Good night.”
What a life it is. What a life it shall be.
