You point out hills and cliffs as we drive telling me that’s where you’ll build your castle. We don’t say I love you’s but you ask me how I feel about decks. I ask you how you feel about hammocks. I tell you I want a secret passageway to my own secret place with a spiraling steel staircase and stone walls. Like a witches tower? And I think you know me perfectly. You tell me you’re not sure if you’ll ever want children. I’m meant to be a mother. I tell you it will be difficult for me to have biological children with my DNA coursing through there chubby little toes and fingers. The next morning there are five different colored vitamins and a glass of water next to the bedside table. You make sure I take each one and look satisfied with yourself when I don’t ask you the reasons for it. You wouldn’t tell me anyway. We don’t say I love you’s but you know I’m clumsy and impatient and I know you like these things about me just as I like your quiet nature and a love language I had never heard before until you spoke to me.
