It’s kinda neat that after a year and a half of being together, I look at Mr. W in his wifebeater and low-riding jeans retiling his shower wall, and I secretly check him out as I swirl tile glue on the backs of the tiles and hand them to him, and I smile at the way his traps shift on his back when he pushes against the wall, I want to press my tongue into the indentation of his tricep muscles, and I wish he were retiling the shower walls naked. Of course, I’m nothing to look at in my wet post-shower hair, a massive mound of fabric as my body disappears inside his big t-shirt and boxers. I guess this is the epitome of being comfortable together.

Yesterday, I told him as we walked from the Thai restaurant back to the car, that I look at him sometimes and smile, thinking how cute he is and how much I love him. He said he’s like that all the time when he thinks about me, and that when he thinks about me, he thinks about how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

I told him that for Valentine’s Day, I don’t want to go out, I just want to be alone with him, curled up in blankets or bathrobes, watching romantic comedies on TV, eating a banana creme pie straight out of the tin.

Of course, if I can stop coughing and feeling like my lungs are compressing on their own whim, I may feel more like getting dressy and going out, or getting undressy and staying home. Stupid virus.

I just heard him cuss. I’d better go help again. =)