Sometimes we call each other Cook (short for Cookie), because one night when she came home from a date — I was already in bed — she came in to tell me about it and the first thing I said in my Ambien (we call them Zambians)-state-of-delirium, in which I am not held accountable for ANYTHING I utter, was “Hi Cookie. How was you date?” But anyway …

If I can’t sleep, she scratches my back till I’m out.
If she has a bad dream, I let her crawl in my bed till the creepies go away.

She has a pajama top with a permanent mascara stain from the time I cried (hard) on her shoulder.
I have a drawer full of 4 years of notes she’s left in life’s unsuspecting places.

She held my hair back while I puked for 3 days with the Influenza.
I held her hand after a break-up.

She makes me gut-laugh.
I make her dinner.

She loves it when I rock-out to The Office’s theme song.
I love it when she leaves her made-up songs on my voicemail.

She forgives me when my mind sometimes wanders while she’s talking to me and I say, “Wait. I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”
I forgive her when she hides around corners, under tables, behind beds, at the top of the stairs, and jumps out at just the right moment and scares the Holy love of God right out of me.

She knows my darkest corners.
I know when she needs help but won’t ask.

She prays for me.
I pray for her.

She teaches me that I can do this.
I teach her my sweet dance moves.

She rubs my feet when I say please.
I sing for her when she says please.
(tell me THAT’s not an awesome trade!)

We may be single. But we are not alone.
It’s sure nice to have someone to come home to.

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