She loves the way his snores about drown out anything elsein the room, including the two cats who spend all night purring right back attheir rumbly human. The way his bedhead curls stand in the morning as he glaresat his reflection in the mirror. The way he stumbles around the kitchen tryingto make coffee so he can wake up, but always pauses to give her a kiss as hepasses by.
She loves the way he talks, even if it’s annoyed andirritated at traffic, the way he expresses himself with profanity and general stubbornness.She loves when he stands toe to toe against Jan Kees and tells him his idea’sstupid. She loves the spark of passion in his eyes as he, Aaron, and Victoriadebate the Torah. The way he sounds speaking Italian, Yiddish, and Spanish.
She loves the way he’s gentle, hands touching wounds andbruises and knowing what to do. The way he sits beside her on the couch atnight, arm slung around her, but knowing she could move if she wants too. Theway he kisses her, touch so light yet so intense after all these years.
She loves his desire to learn everything he can, recognizingher intelligence. He helps her repair cars, but defers to her in knowledge,asking questions. The way he stumbles through Arabic, learning for her, so theycan read the Quran together. And the way he never makes her feel embarrassedwhen she messes up a Yiddish word, even if it’s for the eighteenth time that day.
She loves the way he pulls her up to dance, the way he fitsher into his arms as they sway. The way his hands rest on her hips, callousedfingertips pressing firmly as he lifts her up. The way he touches her hair withnear reverence when they’re alone and she takes off her hijab. The way hisfingers brush against her cheeks.
She loves the little sounds he makes without even realizingit, whether in frustration, delight, or ecstasy. She loves the little way hemoves his hand sometimes while he’s reading, as if he’s holding a cigaretteabout to drop ash, forgetting that he hasn’t smoked in decades. She loves the wayhe sometimes looks at her while he’s on the phone, as if she’s hung the moon,hearing any edge in his voice disappear in favor of a soft tone of adorationthat will be directed at her as soon as he hangs up.
She loves the way he holds her, before they fall asleep. Theway his arms wrap around her tight, pulling her close so she can hear hisbreath and sometimes if she lays her head right, his heart. The way he whispersto her, sweet nothings in all the languages he knows. And the waythat finally, as he falls asleep, he whispers her favorite phrase one moretime.
“I love you.”
And with all her heart and soul, she loves him too.
