He let me cook, even when I burned things. Especially when I burned things. He’d just open the window and say, “Smells like dedication.”
He memorized how I took my coffee. One sugar, a splash of milk, never too hot. And he’d place the mug exactly three inches from my right hand, every single time, so I’d know exactly where it was.
Nobody had ever done that for me.
It sounds so small. It wasn’t small.
There was only one strange thing, early on.
About two months after we started dating, we were sitting on my couch. I asked if I could touch his face. I asked everyone I got close to. It’s how I learn people.
“Of course,” he said.
I traced his forehead. His cheekbones. His nose, which was a little crooked. His mouth.
And then, above his left eyebrow, I felt something. A small line of raised skin. Thin, about half an inch long.
