“I love you.”
I don’t think much of the question. I think after a while, replying with ‘I love you too’ was becoming a bit too samey for him. So I sigh and try to think of an appropriate answer. Nothing in the world will never convince me I don’t love him, fifty years together does that to you. But there was no one moment I decided that I did love him. Perhaps a moment in dancing sunlight or warmth at night. Perhaps in a speck of gold in his eye or the crooked tooth that creeps around the side of his lip when he smiles. Perhaps I love him because he listens to me gush on about trains or because he strokes my hair when I’m ill. Perhaps I love him because he agreed to go on a date with me in the first place, now isn’t that a depressing thought. Perhaps. But I don’t like that answer, so I don’t dwell on it. I love him because he says my name like it holds some higher meaning, because he pays for food, not because its polite, but because I should be treated once in a while. There were so many little things and ways I love him yet none at all. All are too seemingly insignificant and small to actually list. There are no moments a dashingly heroism or mind-blowing sex to mention only a man that helps me do the dishes at night and makes waking up in the morning bearable.
I kiss his nose, “because you are you and that’s all I ever wanted.”
It’s cheesey, it’s not the concise list he wanted me to read out but he still scoffs with smile that makes me fell fuzzy, leaning his head aginat the side of mine, allowing me to hug him tightly, smelling the cinnamon that drifted around him.