Twenty years ago today Mr Grumpy and I went on our first date.
I've known him for more than half my life.
It's hard to wrap my head around that.
Nervous laughter. Mumbled words. Furtive glances. Attraction. Uncertainty.
20 years would have seemed laughable to us both.
His presence is comfort.
No need for fancy words. No need for overt demonstrations of love.
Silence is embraced, not feared.
A simple touch. Our fingers entwined. His hand on my leg. My head on his chest.
He laughs at my jokes and I at his.
Even though we each know the others repertoire by rote.
We are both wider.
Youth has been replaced by 'character'.
Yet when he looks at me I'm still that 17-year-old girl, and he still that 18-year-old boy.
There are no words worthy to describe the bond created through those 20 years.
It is a creature born of time.
Of anger. Of tears. Of laughter. Of love.
Thousands of fibres intertwined.
No beginning. No end. Ever changing.
I read an article recently about a Sliding Doors life. About making choices too early. About whether we would make the same choices given our time over.
As I write, there is a single, long-stemmed, red rose sitting in front of me.
20 years later, and he still remembers that first date.
There is no choice to be made.