I Hate the Way You Love Me

I hit play on my phone and Aretha Franklin’s (You Make me Feel) Like a Natural Woman, plays through my stereo console’s speakers. I pour a glass of Matthiasson’s cab and chop the vegetables I’ve just washed, for dinner. A few sips into my glass of wine, the door from the garage to the kitchen finally opens.
              “Hi,” I say, hoping I don’t sound worried.
              “Yeah. Sorry I’m late.”
              “Everything okay?” I ask. I stand in front of the sink, washing a few of the dishes I’ve used while cooking. Andy is in the family room, taking off his shoes and greeting the dog. He stands, after a quick game of keep away with Abby, and I can’t help but smile. I know he’s stressed. How do I tell him I’ve never loved him more? He’s tired. I know he’s tired. Things have not been easy lately – mostly for him. Things haven’t been easy for me, because I hate seeing him like this. Andy loosens the top button of his dress shirt. And as he steps into the kitchen, he rolls up his sleeves. I turn the water off and face him.
              He notices me watching him. He stops just before he finishes rolling his second sleeve. “What?” he asks.
              “Just enjoying the view,” I say.
              “Who knew rolling one’s shirtsleeves would be so enticing.”
              “Entirely enticing. At least when you do it, baby,” I say. I smile at him and then get back to the stove. “You gonna answer my question?”
              “It’s as okay as it’s going to get at this point,” he says. He pours himself a glass of wine and takes a sip before setting his glass on the counter next to him. He takes a couple of steps toward me and slips his arms around my waist. He leans down and kisses my ear, then my neck. “To be honest, I don’t want to talk about it.”
              “Then don’t talk about it. I just want to know if you’re okay. Screw the rest of them.”
              He whispers in my ear, “This is why I love you. Yes, I’m okay.” He kisses my neck again and then steps away to pick up his wine glass. “Maybe we can talk later after we eat?” he asks, as if he needs permission to talk to me about what’s on his mind. These are the moments when I’m half sad he still hasn’t been quite convinced. I adore everything about him, even the way he rolls his sleeves when I’m working in the kitchen, as if he would never even consider not getting his hands dirty. After a giant gulp of wine, chugging what’s left, he starts cutting the onion, my least favorite cooking task of all time. We’ve got this down now – two years in – and we just move around the kitchen as if we’ve always done it, for all of time. Maybe we have. I used to tell everyone who would listen that I would know the one when I met him because we would have left whatever life that came before, to immediately find each other again in the next life. It’s really stupid and not actually how I see the world and whatever after-life that meets us. But that’s how tied to him I feel, as if we were always meant for each other.
              One of my favorite songs comes on a moment later.  It’s I Hate the Way You Love Me by John Paul White. Andy hates this song. He has never understood it. It makes him uncomfortable. He says it makes him uncomfortable because he still struggles to believe that someone could choose to love him at his absolute worst. That, in a nutshell, is what that song is about, and Andy has taken his sweet time in coming to understand what I mean when I say I love all of him. Before he can say it, because I know it’s coming, I grab his shirt and pull him toward me. I sing the lyrics, “… And I hate myself for staying/Where I should and should not be/With someone I know I don’t deserve/And doesn’t deserve me/… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

              “I love it when you sing to me,” he says. “Even if it is this song.”
               “The entire song is his way of saying it’s hard. But he wouldn’t want anything else with anyone else. I get it. It’s how I feel. I wouldn’t want anyone else but you,” I say.
               “As you were singing it, I kind of got it a little more. I was being way too literal before,” he says. “Also,” he continues, “I don’t want anyone else but you either, even if you have questionable music taste from time to time. But I’ll allow it,” he says.
              “You’ll allow it?” I ask in an amused tone. By now my arms are around him. I won’t be letting go any time soon. “Bold choice. But I like this side of you. So, I will allow it,” he laughs as I pull him closer still and kiss him. His arms wrap around me. There’s not a kiss I want more than his. He kisses my neck again, which is a surefire way to ensure we burn our dinner. When I say, “I should probably get back to work,” he pulls away a little. I smile.
               “Promise me something,” he says.
               “What’s that?” I ask.
              “Promise me you’ll never stop looking at me like you are looking at me right now.”
              “Easy,” I say. “As long as you promise to never stop rolling your sleeves and cutting my onions for me.”
               “Is that all it takes?” he asks. I shake my head yes, as I lead him to our bedroom.

– By E.M. Morgan