It was 10 a.m. on Sunday February 20, 2011 and I woke up to see his face near mine; with his curly, dirty-blonde hair, that crease down his forehead and the mole on his left cheek which was already so familiar. I wriggled over until my nose was touching his face and kissed his cheek to wake him before I shifted my weight to my left and threw my leg over his hips so I was straddling him.
“Wake up, I’m hungry,” I said.
He groaned, “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” I replied.
“You can’t prove that,” he said.
I kissed him deeply and his hands came up to grasp the back of my head. I pulled away. “See.”
“I’m hungry,” I repeated.
He groaned again, “Alright, fine.”
Wearing a t-shirt and a pair of his old Frisbee shorts, I went out to the kitchen and started grinding some coffee. He joined me shortly wearing a pair of generic green mesh basketball shorts and opened the fridge asking me what I would eat in my omelet. He handed me a frying pan and while I heated it and melted some butter he began chopping the onions. I browned the onions while he chopped the peppers and added them to the pan. Standing in the kitchen in our pajamas, we worked in a simultaneous harmony that suggested this was a well-rehearsed routine. Dancing with each other in the 2 square foot space between the counter and the stove, it was just another mundane Sunday morning that should be repeated every Sunday for the rest of our lives.
Six days later, I said goodbye and with tears in his eyes and rolling down my cheeks, I would drive out of the parking lot for his building and drive the 1,800 mile journey back home.