The view from here

Michael and Nicholas

It is 6pm and I have already eaten dinner. I woke up from my nap and decided that 530pm is a completely acceptable time to eat dinner, even if it is a bit early.

Lately, I have been spending this part of my evening, the post dinner pre-bedtime part, in my room. I turn on my little space heater and curl up in my armchair to read. Before long, one or both of the cats will find their way to my lap. And there I will sit, reading, until Michael tells me to go to bed. We will do the one more chapter dance and then I will go to bed with a kiss from my betrothed.

It is a good routine. I cherish the nights when I am able to do this, when I’m not at work or attending some social commitment I made when I was invariably feeling more extraverted than normal.

But not tonight.

Tonight I abandon my armchair and my routine. I walk out to the living room with my book. In the warmer months I will lie on the couch instead. This is hazardous as Michael is in the living room, either writing or working out, and it seems that we can’t be near each other without becoming consumed in conversation.

But tonight I throw caution to the wind. Michael is still at the dining table writing, and I imagine he will be for a while. The dining table occupies the small part of the floor space designated as the dining room. Our apartment, like most, is open plan, so the only thing that designates it as a dining room is the presence of the dining table.

I don’t want to distract him, but I want to be near him. So, I slink to the couch and rearrange the pillows to my liking. I lie down and pick up my book. It takes approximately no time at all for Lazarus to join me. After a bit of head bumping and spinning around and around on my chest the cat finds the perfect spot. He flops his little body down with a pleasing harrumph. He has a skill shared by most cats in being able to trap one of my arms whenever cuddling me; it’s cute and inconvenient, so perfectly feline. I watch as he settles in, he is sprawled along the length of my torso, his paws making a pillow for his head.

Lazarus and Nicholas

My book is a bigger B format paperback; it's the awkward size that a lot of new releases come in. Generally I don’t mind them, but they are harder to hold one handed, like I am doing now. I can’t complain, I borrowed this book off a friend in an attempt to curb my book spending (something I will inevitably be endeavoring to do for the rest of my life). I hold the book up with some effort and begin reading. Lazarus’ ear twitches impatiently every time I have to jostle him around to turn the page. I manage it one handed, but it still disturbs him. Of course it does. I could think about moving and it might be too much for him and he’d get up, depriving me of his perfection.

Michael mutters something under his breath. I peer at him from around my book. He is reading something out to himself. He does this occasionally, I don’t know if he is even aware that he is speaking. From here I am able to watch him without drawing any attention to myself and so I do.

I often catch myself staring at Michael, I’m sure it is unnerving, so it’s nice to be able to do it somewhat inconspicuously. Michael’s face is illuminated by the glow of his laptop. He looks so serious. His face is set into it’s no nonsense posture, it’s not a look I see very often, and I marvel at it now. His face is good in profile. He has nice lines, a strong jaw and high cheekbones. He frowns intermittently, usually when he is muttering. His hands hover above the keyboard and will strike out, making a symphony of subdued clacking. The laptop is perched on top of the hard travel case that the typewriter came in. I got him the typewriter for Christmas, our first Christmas. It is on the bookshelf now. It doesn’t get much use; I mean it was a symbolic gift opposed to a practical one. But, still I’m glad to see that some part of it gets good use. The elevation of the laptop means that Michael doesn’t have to bend to type. He is sitting upright, bundled in his many layers.

My attention cannot go indefinitely unnoticed. We all feel the burn of eyes on us, no matter how hard we are concentrating. Michael looks at me and his face breaks into a smile. It is like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, it’s like the first moments of a sunrise, it’s like – well it’s like love.

“You alright chicken?” he asks, his attention already being sucked back to his writing.

“Yeah.” I chirp. My stomach flips and my mouth is dry. Michael has that affect on me. When he looks at me, it’s like he’s the only person that's ever really seen me. I am more myself when he is looking at me. I feel shiny, radiate, hopeful, fierce, beautiful - under that gaze.

Michael is writing again, fully enthralled as he often is. I am endlessly impressed by his dedication. He sits down everyday and writes, even when it’s hard. He’ll finish soon enough, his alarm will go off and then he’ll keep writing, even though he knows he should stop. But for now the symphony resumes, clack-clack-clack, mutter-mutter-mutter.

Nicholas has emerged and is sitting on the rug that demarks the living room staring at Michael. It is a past time that we both enjoy. The cat stretches and settles in for his own round of Michael watching.

I take in my home; it is full of books, and skateboards. My nights are full of cats, and tea and reading curled up comfortably. My life is full of love.

The view from here is the best I’ve ever seen.