An Everyday Love
Friday, February 11, 2011 at 7:30PM 
her & him
"Some people write love songs about what happens in the beginning of a relationship. We've sort of moved on to what happens during the bulk of that relationship — the work, the investment, the commitment, you know? And some of it doesn't really sound all that sexy." — Karen Bergquist of Over the Rhine (NPR interview)
He gets up too late to iron his work shirt, and your alarm wasn't set for another three hours. But you drag yourself out of bed — bleary-eyed and on the sleepy edge of bitter — to iron it for him, because he's already stressed out enough and you want him to have a good day.
She hangs her bra, her pajamas, her tank tops on the doorknobs. You hate clothes on doorknobs; they get in the way, and as a child were taught it was bad luck, a superstition you don't exactly believe but can't quite shake. Still, you pretend you don't mind.
He doesn't always bother to shave before he picks you up at the airport, his three- or four- or six-day fast-growing stubble closing in on a full scratchy beard, while you prefer a smooth, clean-shaven cheek. But he never complains about how much you travel and he always picks you up.
She forgets a lot of details. You hate to answer questions and you hate to repeat yourself. But she remembers to call every day when she travels, sometimes twice.
He went to Bath & Body Works at the store near his job just to get you two of your favorite lavender candles because you were sad when the store near your house sold out of them for good.
Every year for your birthday, she makes your favorite cake (and frosting) from scratch, the one that involves a dozen steps and requires odd ingredients like marshmallows and Coca Cola.
He makes you laugh in the middle of crying, in the middle of a fight, in the middle of the boring everyday — just like he did when you first met him in the hallway behind the cafeteria. Just like he did when you first knew you loved him.
She still laughs at your jokes, the old ones, the new ones, the corny ones — just like she did the first time you met her in that high school hallway, waiting for lunch. Just like she did when you first knew you loved her.
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