the house smells like chili. no beans, he’s from texas: beans in chili is sacrilege to people from texas. he is on the floor, leaning against the couch, crossed legs like a yogi, the dog’s head on his knee. he’s reading, like always. always, his face is buried somewhere in me, or a book. he looks up at me and winks, the only man i’ve ever met that can pull if off without being creepy or lame. i think it’s that old, gentlemanly, Cary Grant reminiscent charm he has.
