It’s been one year, eight months and 22 days since I first laid eyes on my gorgeous B. Within the space of a couple of months, we were living together and have since day one spent our time mostly together. Not just together, but literally entangled. It’s fair to say we’re crazy close and it’s also fair to say we have seen everything of the other from every angle, and I don’t just mean that in the dirty sense. We know each other inside out, we are so familiar that we’re completely in synch. And yet, one year, eight months and 22 days down the line, I have butterflies in my stomach now that B is in the taxi from Heathrow after having been away for a couple of days with work.
Just like in January, when he had to go to the States for a week, I sat at Heathrow that Saturday morning and my heart was pounding so hard with nerves because I was reduced to a lovesick wreck, all nervous and excited at seeing him again after an absence. He walked out into Arrivals that Saturday morning and I felt faint. Just like I know I’ll feel all lightheaded and coy when he walks through the door in a short while. How is it even possible to be this happy?
And I know that I’ll feel this way in 30 years from now, when he hobbles in with his walking stick. Even though I see this wonderful man every day, I know that I’ll always be in love with him with the same intensity. And my stomach will keep filling with butterflies, just like it did when I first saw him that evening in the Bell & Crown.