He knows me. Too well sometimes. When my sarcasm is really cover for something more. When my silence says more than my words. When I’m on the edge and the littlest thing can send me over. He knows that I like all my baked goods with milk and that most dishes can be made better with parmesan cheese. I remember that he can’t stand his intelligence doubted, though often too late. I know he can take a lot before he snaps; weeks, months even before he finally bursts and then get out of the way.
He does the dishes most of the time because he knows I hate them, but appreciates it even more when I manage to get them done. He loves me the way I am and yet I find myself constantly trying to be better for him. Not because he demands it, but because he deserves the best I can offer. This I know for sure.