I snuggle in behind him, a reverse spoon. I tuck my hand on his hip. The tip of my fingers anchored in his pocket. I breathe against his neck, the air moist and recycled. The only time he’ll take a nap with me is when the power goes out. But first he prowls the house, unsure of what to do with himself. I catch glimpses of him as he passes the doorway. He’s my go getter, and the only time he doesn’t get, is when he’s forced to slow down or stop.

He has this little section of hair that sticks up when he takes off his hat. It’s most obvious from the side, curving at the top like a chocolate parenthesis over his scalp; capturing his thoughts with perfect punctuation. His brown eyes are the windows to his soul, shaded by his long lashes. I can tell when he’s irritated, sad, angry, happy, or hiding something. They twinkle when he is amused at something I’ve done. The crinkles at the edge of his lids appear with the twinkle. They will be crevices by the time we are sixty and gray.

When we first met, he hated to read. I took that as a challenge and started seducing him with Life of Pi and Huckleberry Finn. Now, we argue over the Kindle on those powerless days. He falls asleep reading at night. The device slowly bobbing it’s way down to his chest. I watch its progress as the minutes pass. It’s more entertaining than American Idol.

When he holds me, I feel like God is holding me. He amazes me, this man. Bloom is not a noun often used for men. Yet this is exactly what he has done here. He’s bloomed. Flourished in this tropical heat. He takes care of people in need. He is generous with his money. His heart is broken when he sees an animal in pain. He sacrifices his time to serve me and other people. I try not to worry about a future without him, because he’s shown me that God will take care of me. He allows me to make mistakes, and doesn’t hold grudges. He is my perfect present, in a shiny silver bow.

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