Invisible Love

Sometimes I wonder what kind of lover he would be to me. He is versed, knows how to love a woman without complication. He appreciates the beauty in body parts like knees and ankles. He likes bruises, sees them as inkblots, a way to define a woman by her marks and scars. He will find a bruise and swipe at it with his fingertips as if he is reading brail. He reads a woman's body with his hands, his nose, his mouth. He get to know her, to love her by her smell of coffee and tea tree oil, the taste of salt and chamomile on her shoulder blade, the way her hair feels like corn silk through his fingers.

He would disagree, affably, to gifts on holidays and, instead, on some lukewarm summer morning I would find a note written on a napkin or old envelope from an electric bill that's already been paid. It would be written in methodical, masculine scribble:

Hey you,

Didn't want to wake you up. Made some tea and muffins for you. Booberry, your favorite (see what I did there?) I almost woke you to tell you how beautiful you look in the morning with the sun on your face and you breathing through that little space between your lips? I even think it’s sexy when you snore. I don't have to tell you good luck with your writing today because you don't need it.

You Know I Love You.

And I would save all of his little notes in a paperclip and keep them hidden in my underwear drawer. His love would be purposeful and informal. He would love me best in one of his white shirts, dewy from a fresh shower, a mop of cropped hair pushed away from my face, ruddy and spry. He would be tactful, keep me wondering and perplexed about his love for me from time to time. Loving him would be like a puzzle with pieces missing, so I’d have to go searching for his secrets. Secrets he’d tell me in bed, a little winded after making love and coming with my name on his tongue. He would pass storefronts and be reminded of trinkets I’d like or books I’d read but would only buy them if the wind was blowing the right way, wind that felt like my breath in his hair. And we would cook meals together, assigning each other tasks. He’d wipe tears from chopping onions, and I’d lick the sauce off his index finger. Our arguments would be heated; we would yell, push each other around and go to bed with our backs to each other. And in the morning his chin would be in its usual place between my neck and shoulder and we’d converse in sleepy murmurs until the sun beckons us from the landscape of twisted covers. This is how I would love him.