Every time I look at him, I want to smile. I do smile. Even when he’s irritated. Even when he’s tired. Even when he’s asleep and I wake up before him, studying him in the early morning light. I’ve been smiling for weeks. Every time I look at him, I want to find an excuse to keep talking. I want to ask him a question or two, or three, and wait for his answer. Every time he touches me, it’s like the first time all over again. Fireworks in the night sky. An earthquake, the ground shaking beneath me. Pleasure and bliss, delight and awe. Every spot he touches is magic.
