You’ve been up for a while. It’s early on what you already know will be a lazy Sunday, and he’s still asleep beside you. You let your eyes trace over the lock of hair that’s always in his eyes, slightly obscuring his vision but making him that much more Jim. Your fist clenches, desperate to brush it aside, welcome him into the morning, but for now, your desire to watch outweighs your need to touch.
He’s such a peaceful sleeper, and when you tell him this, he says that he is now but he hasn’t always been. There was a time when he couldn’t sleep, when he spent long nights running through empty streets, chasing something, or staring at the ceiling in the bedroom of his old apartment, willing time to stop or start or jump, anything to relieve him from the vicious loop his days had taken on. Your heart ached when he told you these things, but he reminded you that it was ok, that you were together, that you’d finally made it.
And you had.
You knew things weren’t perfect. You weren’t perfect, and neither was he. You were still sometimes too sensitive and too insecure despite your newfound moxie, and he still made jokes when he shouldn’t and refused to take himself seriously at times when he really should. There was a learning curve, and even after six months, you still found yourself surprised by him, something you’d expected, but also by yourself, something you hadn’t really foreseen.
He constantly praises you for your creativity, but the truth is that you find him ten times more creative than you. He’s constantly coming up with new ways to show you he loves you, that he’s thinking about you, that he’s so genuinely happy to be with you. Your mind wanders to that week in mid-May when he’d insisted on making your lunch every day. Every day at noon, you’d pulled out your yogurt to find a post-it stuck to it. The notes had run the gamut from silly (“Just to be clear…Will you be my girlfriend? Check yes or no.”) to deeply heartfelt (“To be clearer…I’m so in love with you, Pam.”), and while he hadn’t written anything he hadn’t already told you, you were grateful nonetheless for his assurance that no, this is not a dream. It’s your life, yours and his.
He does things that elicit foreign reactions from you. He folds laundry, terribly so that it looks like a ten year old folded the Richard Prince t-shirt he’d purchased for you at the Guggenheim over the summer, and you feel the duel urge to laugh, because he’s just that adorable, and to cry, because you can feel the hand he holds over your heart tightening with his consideration. He insists that you and he cook together, and when you do it usually results in you having to order take out while casting him a mock exasperated glare that quickly dissolves into amusement when he arches an eyebrow at you as if to say, “Don’t act like you’re not having fun.”
You find yourself completely surprised by the way you love him. It’s completely different than anything you’ve ever known. You’re fiercely protective of him and his feelings. You’d spent a ridiculous amount of time the morning after your first date telling him that you loved his hair, homeless or not, and that anyone who said otherwise was an idiot. Obviously the insult hadn’t bothered him to the extent that it bothered you, but he went with your white knight routine, probably because it had you raking your hands through his hair for an hour at least. You find yourself opening to him in ways you’d never imagined. He’s Jim, so he’s curious about everything you have been and everything you will be, but you find that you want to tell him these things as much as he wants to hear them. You want him to know about that time in third grade when Jenny Marshals said that you were ugly with stupid hair and how you’ve never felt like you could really talk to anyone before he came along.
You’re shocked when he does something that causes you to fall even deeper than you already are, not because you don’t think he has it in him but because you’re constantly telling yourself that this is it, you can’t possibly love him any more than you already do. But somehow, when you arrive at his apartment to find him hanging the last of several famous paintings on his living room walls, explaining that he wants your opinions, that he wants to know about movements and brush strokes and what inspires you, you plunge further. And later, curled up with him, your bodies haphazardly strewn across the couch as you watch his favorite movie, when his fingers seek yours and he starts whispering his favorite lines in your ear like he’s giving you the password to some secret universe, your world shifts once more, and your heart expands further.
Now, as the sunlight makes its way through the curtains with an insistency that wasn’t there only a few minutes ago, you unclench your fist and allow your fingers to trail across his brow. His eyelids flutter, and you don’t feel even a little bad for waking him. His eyes open and his hand settles on your bare hip, pulling you closer. He kisses your cheek, and you’re reminded of why your need to touch him will always eventually outweigh your desire to watch him. “Hey,” he husks against your ear, and the way you love him and the way he loves you and the way you love each other flash through your heart, and you know in that instant that the most amazing part about this thing, about you together, is the way you say good morning.
Story Notes:
I haven't done anything like this before, so I'd love to know what you think!
Author's Chapter Notes:
Title from Ingrid Michaelson's "The Way I Am."
Catie9 is the author of 7 other stories.
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