His affections do not that way tend;

They are undoubtedly affections. He is the most affectionate partner I have ever had. He curls around me like a coat sometimes, intertwines legs and arms and neck and all making us like a singular creature with two heads and hearts and so many limbs. For me, he will do things he was never done before. He will make cards, learn painting techniques, construct works of art meant only for me. All of it full up with affection, a water jug so full it sloshes over the side at times.
He does not say he loves me. Not with any ease. He’s not likely to holler my name in a rainstorm. He’s much too practical for that. He will never write me a poem, never use flattering language. I am mostly “nice.” He’s not likely to tell me I’m beautiful or sing songs in my praise. He will never show up at my door one day, having run all the way there. He’d never make the plane if we were in a romantic comedy.
But then, romantic comedies usually end before the relationship begins.


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