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He’s not perfect… and Lord knows that I don’t need him to be.
He doesn’t “bless me” when I sneeze, or ask me if I want the last chicken wing. He frequently reminds me of the costs of past meals and activities and he informs me of his attraction to every thin woman we see on the TV screen. He doesn’t always vocalize his affection or adoration, and he doesn’t always vocalize his anger or when he’s hurt. He has no interest in the idea of family or marriage, or any set plans for his future. He has no sense of time or romance. After we’re done having sex, his first question often is, “You took your birth control, right?” He can be immature and, at times, premature.
At the very same time: He’s passionate and his kisses incite heat. He never looks at another woman in my presence, and his eyes constantly tell me that I’m beautiful. He’s handsome and caring. He’s patient and he’s calm. He would never make me cry on purpose, and when I do cry, he does his best to correct that. He holds my hand at dinner tables and on walks down the street. He responds to my mistakes with forgiving laughter; and when we rest, he folds me close into his body like a well-kept secret. He’s knowledgeable about things that matter and plenty of things that don’t. He reads and he writes. He opens my eyes to new music and culture.
He probably isn’t my soulmate or “the one,” a concept that shouldn’t concern me so much in my 20s, but somehow it does, and on some days, the fact that he isn’t makes me sadder than it does on others.
The three year involvement was founded when I was still in a relationship with someone else, during the last term of my senior year of college and the last term of his junior year. Our relationship was cemented just over a year ago after I moved to New York, partly to be with him. Being with him has made me happy. Even with the hour travel between Harlem and Brooklyn, and whatever complications might intervene, I’ve remained ecstatic.
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