When my hair clogs up the shower drain, he removes it.
When his wastepaper basket in the office fills, I empty it.
When he cooks, I clean the kitchen.
When I cook, the kitchen is reset before he takes his last bite.
He says, “Leave it, I’ll do it.”
I say, “It’s already done.”
When we use the car, I drive us.
When I play my music, I say, “I know you hate this.”
He says, “You are driving, you get to pick the music.”
When I’m done, I play Sade or St. Germain without comment.
When we eat out, I order for him.
When I walk ahead, he checks out my bum.
When I catch him, he says, “You have the biggest ass in all of France,” and winks.
When I open iCloud,
on my phone,
on my laptop,
at home,
it’s a shared account he maintains.
His face unlocks my phone.
My password for everything is the date of our first date.
He’s never changed the password on his,
leaves it on the table when he goes to the bathroom in restaurants,
since Sevilla, all those years ago.
Twenty years and three daughters later,
we’ve opened joint bank accounts,
dropped individual email accounts for a joint email address.
Twenty years and three daughters later,
he says:
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Of course you want that.”
Twenty years and three daughters later,
he stops what he’s doing to make me a flat white when I wake.
Twenty years and three daughters later,
he says:
“Yes, wife,” when he hears me.
“Yes, ma’am,” to tease me.
“Yes, my love.”
Twenty years and three daughters later,
I say:
“Where is my playlist?”
“Where is my passport?”
“How does this turn on?”
“Do you like this house?”
“Let me show you the neighbourhood.”
He says:
“Yes, wife, let’s check it out.”
Twenty years and three daughters later,
I’m still saying:
“Do I belong to you?”
“Do you belong to me?”
