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“Tadaima,” a voice speaks by the door.
In the volume of his voice, you know that the day was well-spent with friends. Its tone, a pitch higher than it usually is, comes as a sign of cheerfulness. In these mere three syllables, you know that even if the day was partially cherished, there is an implication of excitement; the day for him can only be fully cherished when he has loved and adored you in the flesh.
“My sweet,” you greet Yuki, as he walks behind you and kisses the top of your head.
“Oh, please don’t smell my head—it’s full of sweat and pollution,” you tell him, but he kisses your head again nonetheless. He stands beside you, as he observes you cooking.
“What’s that?” he asks with such naivety.
To which you reply, “Your usual meal, your majesty.”
“You don’t have to cook for me, you know. I’ve been doing it on my own for more than ten years,” he says as he tries to hide his frown. You may be slow in other things, but when it comes to Yuki, you’re quick enough to figure him out.
“Let’s not talk about this. The moon is shining half as bright, and even if the clouds are hiding the stars, I know they’re shining twice as bright. It’s a beautiful night, so let’s cherish it,” you tell him. He playfully nods and puts his hands up in defeat against your poetic, dramatic little ass, and you place each food onto a plate before Yuki brings it to the table.
When the both of you finally get to sit down, he takes in the food he has always taken in in the same way. But when he sees you, eating what he would call scraps—the excess of his meal, mixed with extra condiments and leftovers–he is left sighing at every instance you put a piece of your meal into your mouth.
He has to do something about it… and so he says, “I still don’t feel comfortable about this.”
“About what?”
“The food.”
You look down at your food, and then at him again. To you, there’s nothing wrong with what you’re eating. You begin to understand that tonight is a night that will be filled with sighs—well, not the kind both of you are hoping for.
“Yuki, again. At the very beginning, I said I wanted to be in charge of the meals. You had no objections. You said I could make any meal that I wanted—your words, not mine,” you tell him calmly and slowly, “I have spent a majority of my life making decisions for myself without the help of anyone else. If I loved you any less, I would have walked right out that door.”
He simply nods to your words. He’s taking the information in, just as much as the both of you are eating. When both of you finish eating, you begin to take the plates and utensils–as well as the pans, pots, cutting boards, and whatnot–to the sink to get them washed. Yuki stays still in his seat, watching your every move.
“I didn’t know you love me that much,” Yuki confesses.
You laugh, “Silly. You think too much. I’m wildly devoted to you that I’d clean your rice paddles—and all of these I do because it’s my choice, I hope you understand that.”
“I’m beginning to.”
He approaches you from behind, his fingers constantly moving, never in the same place it once was. He then wraps his arms around you and places his face on your head.
“I thought I told you—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts.
“My head—”
“Blah blah blah—”
“It stinks —”
“Blah blah—”
“It smells—”
“Like love and hard work.”
For a moment, you place one of the white plates down and turn your head to him—bewildered, amazed, astonished. Your eyes widen and eyebrows raise.
“I didn’t know you love me that much,” you then confess. Oh, how the tables have turned. He looks at you and smiles. When you turn back to washing everything that was left on the sink, he plays with your hair, which looks and smells of love and hard work .
After washing the dishes, you and Yuki form a separate routine. As you shower, he begins brushing up his Italian and does his stretches. An everything shower , as you call it, gives him an opportunity to take as much time as he can to catch up with whatever he has not done for the day.
When you finish your shower and step out the bathroom door, you see Yuki by the living room, going through his phone just to pass the time. He looks up and sees you, pajamas crinkled and hair dried. He smiles and pats your tiny, tiny head and showers next.
You sit on the left side of the bed, turning on the lampshade. In silence, you grab your copy of Ogden Nash’s I Wouldn’t Have Missed It and the pen that sits in between the pages. You begin to go through the poem To My Valentine , annotating a word or a phrase or a line or a stanza. There are intervals in the scratching of the tip of the blue ballpen against the surface of the page. You revel in this kind of silence, where you sit and do what you love while the love of your life is just a few meters away from you. It’s comfortable. It’s a reminder that love persists in every space you both occupy. It’s a routine you will never get tired of.
By the time Yuki finishes his shower, he checks on you by peeking through the bedroom door. You are asleep with a book in one hand and a pen in the other—which he is grateful that you haven’t accidentally written on the bed sheets at some point—snoring the night away. It’s surprising for him to find you already asleep, for on the most normal of days, if he finished showering, you would have surely greeted him outside the bathroom door, asking him to get to bed in an instant. He tiptoes to your side and takes away the book and the pen, lightly placing them on the bedside table and turns off the lampshade. He then goes to his side of the bed and lies down.
Not wanting you to sleep in a terrible posture, he nudges you a little. There’s a soft sigh that comes out of your mouth before you see his shadow, as you're half-awake.
“Whatisit?” you ask.
“You fell asleep reading again.”
You fix your posture, fully lying down.
“Youshouldn’thavewokenmeuppp,” you scold him.
“Why?”
“Ialways…needto…getaheadstartbeforeyoustartsnoring.”
He laughs. He combs your soft hair and says, “I’ll stay awake till you get to sleep.”
For the next few minutes, he places his hand on you and feels your chest rise and fall and your breathing turn quiet. Then, there’s a little snore that comes out of you. He smiles. He has no right to complain about you snoring, it’s not as loud as his snores anyway.
He brushes your hair and kisses your temple. Then again. Then again. He lies on his side of the bed, allowing the darkness to seep through his eyes. In his head, he begins his plans to spend a day with you tomorrow. Or maybe two days. Or three. Though your love for each other is infinite, life is not; Yuki will hold you dear for as much as he can, for as long as he can. He’ll do anything to express his gratitude besides what has already been expressed in the days since you have been together.
Then at long last, you are both asleep.
By then, the night had fallen halfway. The clouds have finally cleared, where the stars begin to show their shine. Just know that whatever nature throws, the stars are still bound to you and Yuki—at the height of adoration and tenderness between the both of you, there is love in a sky where the stars shine brightest.