something about the colour blue

nogreatillusion:

Ben makes hash in his cast iron skillet - potatoes and bacon and onions, and I can smell it cooking from the bedroom. I pad into the kitchen in my bare feet and button down shirt, make toast and spread it with caramel apple butter. I garnish our plates with fresh strawberries and pour us pineapple-orange mimosas. We eat on the sofa with our legs curled underneath us.

If you were to peer into our lives with the strongest set of binoculars and a polaroid camera, these are the snapshots you would keep, the things that stick: Ben coming home with yellow lilies in hand, the way he steals the coconut shampoo suds from my hair and rubs it into his own, how we make the bed together, tucking in the sheets just so, tackling the changing of the duvet cover as a team.

He has been teaching me patience with myself. I have been teaching him patience with inanimate objects. We study the shelves in Manhattan bookstores. We hum along with the ice cream truck’s tinkling song. We watch the police lights on the ceiling at night. We point out the best dogs on the street. He lifts my laundry bag - the one I used to drag on a cumbersome cart - with one arm. With the other, he holds my hand.

The sidewalks of Brooklyn are lined with white flowering trees that smell like old semen. This, too, is lovely and funny and ridiculous, like us. “We have a dream life,” Ben says to me. And I say, with all sincerity, “Yeah, we do.”

love it, love this.