Well, really, love is little more than a man bringing a drink out to his girlfriend on the hammock.
But of course that’s not true.
It is a man knowing his girlfriend, noticing that it’s sunny, that the eight year old is down for his nap, that she can certainly be found reading, swaying just outside the sunroom.
It is a boyfriend taking a break from the computer, the stacked papers, the receipt files, walking to the kitchen to refill his water glass, peering out the window to see she is dozing off. He will smile. He has chosen to forget her mess sanding the pergola from that morning, chosen to forget the iPad time she gave his son from last week, the melt down from the shed prior, the silly belly comment nearly 2 months ago.
Love is remembering to forget.
It is a man with mountains of work and a few minutes to his name, and yet, another choice: his girl.
And so, he will tiptoe back up to the office, see the paperwork, set down his glass of water. And he will walk away from the desk, past the sofa and toward the fridge to grab a drink – the grapefruit-buttermilk one, the best one – and he will tuck it into his arm to deliver to an undeserving girl. He will pause his work, he will pause for her.
He is outside now, by the hammock, whispering, I’ve brought you something, and it is just a drink and it is not at all just a drink.
It is love, it is love, it is love.
