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Hey, I’ve left something behind with you.

I can’t find anything in the cab, what is it?

My heart. Keep it safe.

I will, baby.

She entered my life, on 13 April 2007, Friday the Thirteen, no less. How symbolical. The room temperature fell at her arrival at the club. Oozing of such natural nonchalance sadly mistaken by I as arrogance, we were introduced by a certain Samantha Jones.

An opportunity struck for us to hold a conversation beyond civil pleasantries. We were designated by the rest to “look after the bags”. My misconception of her slowly faded away. I left that night curious, with her number on my cell phone.

For the record, she left that night fearing I was a stalker. Uh-huh. She also thought I was a bit too feminine. No shit. Bad mistake to have worn that halter-neck denim dress, I suppose.

Lunch finally happened on my third attempt. At strike three, I was well prepared to fuck off. Curious as I was, I knew when to give up. It was a deliberate choice to avoid a dinner date. My curiosity was conceived from a strange desire to discover her as a person. Not the urge to fuck her on the premise of “sending her home” after dinner.

As one lunch date lead to the next, I started to realize she was worth so much more than a night’s romp. I began to feel something unfamiliar brewing within me that I could not understand. I regret I cannot explain it at this present moment too. If this is Love, then I can only say, I have never been in love until I met her. To know that you will die for someone is frighteningly peaceful. To know that your soul will vanquish at the loss of someone, is sadistically heartwarming. To know that it is possible to find The One, well, nothing quite prepares you for that.

I pray the day will not come when she stops loving me. For a survivor who dealt with an overnight departure of someone she had for four years, you’d think this would be nothing more than a superficial wound to the heart. Wrong. For the first time, and I will say this openly to anyone reading this, my heart belongs to her. If she leaves, she takes my heart with her.

You’re about to be frozen, and she’s being barbecued.

I beg your pardon?

A couple of days ago, we were at the hair salon getting our tresses done. She, a nourishing hair scalp treatment, I, an abusive pigment overhaul. We played pass-the-parcel with our 20-piece McNuggets (yes, our very unassuming dinner) between 2 assistants and our hair stylist in command. Highly unromantic in normal circumstances, but like all our special moments that have taken place, it was magical. The unofficial lesbian anthem by Colin Raye that cooed on cue was rather hilarious though.

The stinking restroom. That unhygienic Indian restaurant. The hair salon. Our special moments never needed orchestrated, superficial props we were accustomed to in our previous relationships. While we appreciate the quality of food and ambience The Altivo provides, it is nice to finally find someone to create magical moments generated simply by our own company. It is nice that my life for once, doesn’t feel like an emotionless process-driven ride. Like half of our heterosexual marriages out there.

You’re always fucking right, aren’t you?!

Fuck! I was just trying to explain myself!

What is it that you want from me?!

We fight a lot. More than I ever do with anyone else. It angers me. It frustrates me. It makes me want to break a car window with my fist. It makes me cry. It makes me cry so hard.

No one has got this close to me. To make me react this way. To have me this affected by her actions and her words. We fight a lot because we choose to be vocal with our opinions all the time. It’s healthy. We fought last night and it ended with her sleeping safely in my arms. It felt like home. It was perfect.

I love you, my wife. Happy anniversary.