He loves her apartment. Loves every single thing. Loves that she chose the color for every wall. Loves that she wanted more colors than she had rooms, so some rooms have a different color on each wall. Loves that the whole place smells like her, like powder and vanilla and fruit and paint and turpentine.

He loves that the living room has her prints bumping into each other on the walls - charcoal resting against water color, overlapping water color, nudged against oil. Loves that she can't seem to stop creating after so many years of ignoring the urge.

He loves that what should be the dining area is where her computer and books live. Loves that the walls surrounding her there are papered with passages from her favorite books, poems, cartoon strips, even song lyrics.

He loves that her bathroom is apparently a shrine to accessories - pictures of shoes, purses, scarves, belts and jewelry are everywhere. He loves that she considers it inspiration when she dresses each morning, fascinated that high heels could be seen as muse.

He loves her bedroom, painted in shades of purple. Loves that she scoffs at his ignorance and her expression when she explains the nuances separating plum and eggplant. Loves that the wall at the foot of her bed is not home to a television, but plays host to dozens of postcard-sized versions of her favorite paintings - ballerinas prepare for the stage, virgin and child float over a city, lovely women portray the seasons, starry nights and water lilies.

He loves her in this apartment. Her laughter rings through the rooms, her smile dazzles him. Her happiness tangible.

He loves that he never feels intrusive, that there's room for him.

He loves the sights, sounds, smell, taste and touch of her he gets in this apartment.

He loves that she is his home.