It's the most romantic thing I can imagine. A soft, unexpected kiss on the back of my hand. He doles them out like Santa spreads "ho ho ho"s at Christmas. In the car on the way to his mom's house. In the second row during a sparkling jazz concert. At the back of a park shelter during our friends' wedding ceremony.

He creates a magical, candle-lit table on his deck for a run-of-the-mill Sunday dinner. Ham sandwiches and vegetable soup are the spread. His props are four milk crates, three flat wooden boards, and two citronella candles. The lightening bugs appear, glowing approvingly. The mosquitos are promptly forgotten with a swat and a smile.

He makes sure his body is somehow touching mine when we're drifing off to sleep. Even if he's on top of the comforter and I'm snuggled within its warmth, we connect, assured of each other's presence.

This love. It's sure and right and wonderful. It's ours. And it's true.