Brendon.
Transformers band-aids & Spiderman bubble bath.
Brendon is . . . Brendon. And that’s pretty much the way of it. He’s not like other boys, guys, men, whatever word you prefer to use. (Though calling Brendon a man is pretty fucking laughable.)
He smiles a lot. He laughs a lot. He watches Disney movies and eats raw cookie dough. He climbs into random laps and snuggles into random necks and shoulders. He brings me burnt breakfast in bed and kisses my fingertips when he doesn’t want to say I love you.
He knows exactly where that spot is between my neck and my shoulder. He knows exactly what to do when I have a panic attack or when I misplace my notebook. He knows all the tricks for keeping the smoke alarm from going off when he makes popcorn.
He always forgets to check the mail, never remembers to put the clothes from the washer into the dryer. He still cries when he skins his knees, even if they are crocodile tears used to get me to give him a blowjob. He buys Transformers Band-aids and Spiderman bubble bath.
He sits up all night when I have a bad dream, running his fingers through my hair and holding one of my hands in his. He sneaks into the next door neighbors backyard and picks their flowers at midnight, then puts them in a Gatorade bottle filled with water next to the bed. He hides the newspaper when bad things happen and he always takes the dog for a walk when it’s giving me a headache.
He holds me after we have sex and kisses me on the forehead, calls me obscenely adorable pet names. He tells me every day how much he loves me, even if he doesn’t always use words. He reduces me to the equivalent of a silly teenage girl. But that’s the way it’s supposed to be. He wouldn’t be Brendon if it were any other way. And I wouldn’t be in love with him.
He smiles a lot. He laughs a lot. He watches Disney movies and eats raw cookie dough. He climbs into random laps and snuggles into random necks and shoulders. He brings me burnt breakfast in bed and kisses my fingertips when he doesn’t want to say I love you.
He knows exactly where that spot is between my neck and my shoulder. He knows exactly what to do when I have a panic attack or when I misplace my notebook. He knows all the tricks for keeping the smoke alarm from going off when he makes popcorn.
He always forgets to check the mail, never remembers to put the clothes from the washer into the dryer. He still cries when he skins his knees, even if they are crocodile tears used to get me to give him a blowjob. He buys Transformers Band-aids and Spiderman bubble bath.
He sits up all night when I have a bad dream, running his fingers through my hair and holding one of my hands in his. He sneaks into the next door neighbors backyard and picks their flowers at midnight, then puts them in a Gatorade bottle filled with water next to the bed. He hides the newspaper when bad things happen and he always takes the dog for a walk when it’s giving me a headache.
He holds me after we have sex and kisses me on the forehead, calls me obscenely adorable pet names. He tells me every day how much he loves me, even if he doesn’t always use words. He reduces me to the equivalent of a silly teenage girl. But that’s the way it’s supposed to be. He wouldn’t be Brendon if it were any other way. And I wouldn’t be in love with him.