In the early days of living together, we do things for each other. Slip love notes into coat pockets; prepare a candlelit dinner for two; bring home ice cream and flowers after work. We're young and in love and marvelling at the wonder of living alongside your lover.
Once, you bring me breakfast in bed. We've only been in the flat for a couple of weeks; our bedroom more or less consists of a bed surrounded by cardboard boxes overflowing with our possessions. The blinds aren't much good at keeping the light out, so by eight thirty I'm waking up slowly, blinking against the sunlight filtering into our room. I roll over, hands sleepily grasping for you before my brain has properly kicked into action. Already, it's an automatic movement the moment I wake up.
There's a moment of emptiness and confusion as I realise you're not there. I rub my eyes lazily with my fists then push myself up until I'm sitting with back against the headrest. I'm about to call out, wondering where you could have gone on a Sunday morning, when you say my name.
You're stood in the doorway, a sleepy grin on your face and a tray in your hands. You cross the room - which isn't much of a distance, we are broke first time home buyers, after all - and sit down beside me. The tray, which you place carefully in front of us, holds a single peony (my favourite) in one of the chipped glasses from the kitchen; a plate piled high with pancakes and two mugs: one coffee, one tea.
I sling my arms around your shoulders, fingertips brushing the thin fabric of your t-shirt. Into the crook of your neck I murmur that I love you. Your voice is soft when you reply that you love me too.
"But you hate coffee," I say as I reluctantly detach myself from you.
"That I do," you reply with a grimace. I know we're both thinking of our first date when you agreed to meet up at a coffee shop and spent the first half an hour trying to pretend the smell of coffee wasn't making you nauseous.
"Thank you," I murmur, cupping my hands around the mug and taking a sip.
In this moment, it seems impossible that I could ever be unhappy with my life again.
