It happened in a library. This is not necessarily important to the story, but I find it appealing.

Love, for me, is not passion in extremes. It is meted out daily in even doses. It is thankyous and hugs and sly smiles. It is a Sunday morning cuddling on the couch. Taking turns getting up and bringing eachother food and drink. Being invested enough to get into fights and then resolve them. Spooning deep into the night.

I once thought that love for me would come with a man heavily involved in the arts. An eccentric personality that might eclipse my own. An international affair filled with sweating and longing. But that isn’t really authentic to me. However, I didn’t know this until I met him.

We are such opposites. He loves Mariah Carey while I prefer Antony & the Johnsons. He enjoys football while I can’t get enough of Stephen Colbert. He keeps a budget and I am usually late on bills. I drink coffee by day and whiskey by night. He undoubtedly has a water bottle in hand.

But we are slow and steady. We laugh and play scrabble. We respect one another. We allow eachother individuality. And I just can’t get enough.

He is sexy in a completely innocent way. He is strong and stable. He puts me to bed when I’ve had too many drinks and pass out. I like to do silly dances to great him when he comes home from work. He pretends to think I’m too cheesy but I know he likes it. We fit.

That’s about it, really. Love is idiosyncratic. A link between two random people that figure eachother out. For me, with him, it is entirely beyond my control.