“But sometimes you need chemicals!” He shrieked teasingly. “Everything in this house is made of milk and honey and nuts and berries,” he jabbed, smiling.
He was referring to my vanilla coconut oil toothpaste, my patchouli oil body wash, my organic and gluten/sulfate/paraben-free shampoo.
“It’s always arts and crafts in here,” he grinned loudly, walking through my door, taking inventory with his sharply bright eyes. “You’re always creating something.”
He was referring to my table full of dried bouquets, acrylics paints, smeary dried glue, and canvases of various sizes.
“Isn’t there any actual food in this house?” He laughed. He was perpetually astounded that my kitchen was filled with hemp protein powder, almond milk, and days of avocadoes.
We were a bit of an odd couple. Both of our days revolved around characters, though his were numbers and mine were letters. While he was more than a decade my senior, I was the more serious one, while he could lighten up any topic.
I filled our shared calendar with dinners and experiences. It worked for us. I was type A, and he needed someone organized.
When we were on, we were on. We shared secrets like starfish, arms outstretched with no chance of retracting our tentacled stories. And when we were off, we both went about our lives without interrupting each other’s with pithy noise.
He takes his coffee at a distinct 130 degrees, so that it’s hot, but he wastes no time blowing on it — he can drink it immediately. He likes it be the color of tanned leather, with just enough half n half to cut the acidity.
I take mine black.
But my fridge is always filled with half n half for the next time he waltzes through my door, and says, “Babe, I’ve missed you.” And we make ourselves forget how long it’s been.
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