You Are the One

Friday's breakfast: Blueberry scones from this recipe. Have a great weekend and see you Monday!

You are the one. There may be others out there, others who are better, brighter, smarter, nicer, kinder, handsomer, successfuller, richer, funnier, softer, harder.

You know what I’m talking about.

But you are the one.

Whatever did I do before I met you? What did I occupy my life with? How boring and empty it must have been. Now, there’s you!

Before I met you my life was calm and easy. You made my life difficult. Sometimes. Most of the time you make my life beautiful. Like a song or a dream. Difficult and beautiful. Just like you. Just like life is supposed to be.

We never said: "Oh, let's buy a house!"

We never said: "Let's settle down."

We walked around the block one New Year's Eve with all our money in our pockets, because that was a lucky thing to do, you said. And I believed that, like I believed all you said.

Sometimes I get angry with you. I knock on the bathroom door and say:
“Are you ever going to come out from there?”

Other times I say:
“What is this thing doing here?”

And pick up a sock, yours, from the coffee table.

You always call for me to explain where some address in Manhattan is. You never google it, you always call me. And I always answer. Even when I’m busy. It makes me feel special, it is a silly thing perhaps, but it makes me feel special. Bet you didn’t know that!

When you say something nice, it means something, and I can go for miles and miles on a nice word from you. I remember the things you say. The words you invent for me. You say “textual fracture” when I make a writing mistake. And you invented “compulsionist”. You said so-and-so is a “compulsionist don’t let him get to you!” So I don’t.

You see, I love that! Few know that about you.

You can point your toes like a real dancer, that’s very impressive and another thing I like about you.

Once, I thought I’d lost you and we were at Times Square, I was with someone I didn’t want to be with, and all of a sudden in the throng of people I saw you. In your big, blue coat, which later I sat with in my lap to sew on a button.

Once, for a short while, I did lose you, and no matter how often I checked the cup with the toothbrushes, yours wasn’t there.

You have tried and liked (or pretended to like) every single cake I’ve ever made. Even the ones that clearly were failures. You always give my cakes thumbs up.

Once we watched four movies in a row in a movie theater on 12^th Street, another time I told you “take the steak tartare! go ahead, take it!” when we were at a restaurant in Nyhavn and you bravely ate the raw meat and onions.

You leave me to sleep uninterrupted on Coney Island while you take our son to buy corn on the cob.

You are the other half of my apple.

You are a clown. You aren’t like all those other people who are so serious all the time and know boring things like how to do taxes and what stocks to buy and stuff like that. You bother about the important things in life: Art and philosophy. Dreams. Religious stuff. Stories. You get excited about the Knights Templar and Richard III buried under a parking lot and if that’s really Noah’s ark up there in the mountains of Turkey. I like that.

When you sleep you look just like our son.

You are the one.