As I sit down for dinner in the later evening, the French countryside still set alight by the summer sun, I watch the woman I love picking at the fish on her plate and taking gulps of the cider we bought at a small shop in town. Forks and knives scrape against our plates, the pond bubbles in the distance, and I say something that causes her to lean toward the table and laugh. I relish the sweet sounds that I caused to escape from her throat.
A month ago, when she proposed that we utilize her mother’s house in Normandy for a weekend away, I felt nervous about it. Now that we are here, though, I feel the most relaxed I have felt in months. Away from our respective friends and jobs, there is no pressure to be anything but exactly who we are to ourselves and each other. I have been napping in the garden, leaving my phone out of my sight, and listening to her play the piano for hours on end. I have time to settle into being comfortable and I am finding comfort in the smallest actions.
Our meal times have become a thoughtful practice. She cooks, we set the table together, and then we talk about everything. More than ever before, I find us digging deep within ourselves to contribute to these conversations. Tonight, we find ourselves discussing our dating history. To understand me better or maybe just to satiate her…
