We fit.

Our salads arrive. Without even speaking, I pick the onions out of mine and toss them in his bowl. He’s simultaneously placing his tomatoes in mine.

We fit.

I’m curled around him, my knees fitting perfectly in the triangle his make. My arm is draped across his middle, our hands intertwined. Then he rolls, and we reverse, his long limbs curled around my smaller ones.

We fit.

I call him on my way to the drugstore. “Do you need anything?” I ask him. “Yes,” he thinks, “but I don’t remember what.”

“You need soap…”


“And shaving cream…”


“And deodorant, but not the gel kind.”

“You’re right! So why did you call?”

We fit.

We’ve hit the double digits. Less than 100 days until our puzzle pieces are indefinitely joined.

Fit together, perfectly.