The Rhythm of a Relationship

There's just something about the way we fit together.

Every night, before bed, Stacy sweeps through the house checking for empty coffee mugs, half-full cups of tea, the occasional glass of seltzer with one sip left in it. She scoops it all up, loads it into the dishwasher, programs it to run in the night, and then gets up in the morning and puts all the clean dishes away first thing. I wake up at 6am to feed the cats, crawl back into bed and doze until my alarm goes off. I take out the trash and recycling on Tuesdays and Fridays. I vacuum the living room rug in the afternoons. I make the coffee every morning, and Stacy pours and prepares it (one splash of half-and-half for me, one heavy pour of almond milk for her) and brings the steaming mug to me at my desk, with a smooch on top of my head (or sometimes right behind my ear). On Friday nights we order pizza and watch back-to-back WNBA games, cheering for our favorites (we have a lot of favorites). 

People ask me all the time what mine and Stacy's secret is, how we've been together for over a decade and just keep falling more in love, how our relationship has survived (thrived) despite all the many external forces pressing in on us. We're so kind to each other, that's part of it. Eye-rolling levels of sweetness. The type where you'd snatch the last mozzarella stick off the table and swallow it in one bite because you're tired of watching us go: "No, you take it, sweetheart." "No, you; it's your favorite. You love this spicy sauce!" We're both quick to apologize, sincerely, and quick to forgive, fully. That's another part of it. We both have our own lives, and then this whole other life that's just ours, just the two of us, that we guard like a dragon's most precious treasure. That's part of it too. 

But, honestly, there's just something about the way we fit together, the rhythm of the way we move around each other — my gentle hands on her hips, guiding her away from a sizzling pan, when I'm cooking dinner; her quick hands reaching out to grab a water bottle I knocked over, mid-tumble, when we're on the couch watching a movie — and the natural harmony that's come from doing it over, and over, and over, and over. She manages the cat food prescriptions. I clean the litter boxes. She researches the best air purifiers. I keep the filters clean.

Stacy puts on her wedding ring every morning, and then she takes it off and puts it in the little box it came in, on her nightstand, every night. Before the dishes, before the coffee, before the cats start demanding all their special little attentions. Wedding ring on. Wedding ring on. Wedding ring on. 

When I was a kid, I always told everyone I'd never get married because I didn't want to share my stuff — but what I really meant is that I didn't want to share my life with a man. I didn't know this whole other thing could exist, a lifelong slumber party with my very best friend, slow dancing in the living room to a tune only we can hear, the cadence of our hearts in sync, familiar and true.