POV
HIM
My favorite part of the day is when she comes bounding through the door. It must be hot and humid. Her hair is a big mess of curls lumped on one side of her head. It’s a joke between us. I put my book down and stretch over the puffy arm of my chair to lower the footrest. She gets upset if I try and get up without putting it down. The defense of my wicked balance as a ski racer always falls flat. I remember that. When I look up again, she is gone. I walk over to where she last stood and find her descending the stairs. Without saying a word, I wrap her in a gigantic hug. I breathe her in before loosening my arms.
I ask her if she wants coffee, but she grabs her mug from the kitchen counter and says she’s all set. I always wait for her before making my coffee. She walks over to the living room and settles in the chair next to mine as I pull the coffee supplies out of the cabinet. I ask her if she wants coffee and hear a “no thanks” as I fiddle with the filter pack. The paper always sticks together. I blow between them until the top one breaks free. After assembling all the components to make the perfect cup of coffee, I push brew on the maker. I open another cabinet to grab my mug. It’s not there.
HER
Today, I wake up with an ’80s mullet, the byproduct of going to bed with wet hair. All I can do is make fun of myself when I walk through the door and see the guy who gave me this unruly mane. It always makes him laugh.
It feels chilly. I quickly scan the room before setting my coffee on the kitchen counter and heading upstairs. I find an open window and close it. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, he is waiting with outstretched arms. His hug is the best part of my morning. The feel of his bushy beard makes me miss his bare face—the one that shows the dimples and smirk smile we share. He doesn’t shower much anymore, and I think he has forgotten how to shave. When we release, I grab my coffee and head to my spot in the living room. I move his book to make room for my mug on the table. He is reading Micheal Crichton’s Lost World. Yesterday was a Harlan Coben novel, and the day before, a Tom Clancy tome. I am happy to see the footrest on his chair in the down position.
He asks me if I want coffee, and I say no again. He wakes up before the sun has even considered rising. This cup will likely be his third of the day. I hear him blow a filter loose, a handy trick he taught me. I prepare for what is coming after hearing the click of the coffee maker and I get up to meet him at the cabinet. After putting a reassuring arm around his shoulder, I say, “Let me help you find your favorite mug.”
