I didn’t believe in love before I met Greg; not even the abstract, theoretical notion of it. It’s not to say that I was incapable of loving, I just didn’t buy into the whimsical BS most young women seemed to ingest by the pound.


Greg was different. I remember quite vividly the first time he touched me, both because it was the first time we met and, cliché as it sounds, because I knew he was the one. To the annoyance of my friends, he and I had been talking all night and it was time to go. He gave me his number and asked me out. As I tucked it away he rubbed my upper arm and said, “You’re cold.”


And I was cold! I was cold to the point of goosebumps.


Since then we’ve shared and created plenty of touches. We’re a touchy couple. Every touch between us is special and binding and unique in its meaning. I love the way our hands feel locked together, our palms touching, our fingers interlaced. I love the way he holds me at night even when he’s completely exhausted and the feel of his calming hand tracing up and down the center of my back after one of my nightmares.


But nothing compares to the feel of his lips when he kisses my forehead. I feel safe and protected and small.


But even this, my favorite of gestures, has multiple meanings ranging from “I love you” to “Aw, bless your heart. I married a complete moron”. That last bit is never spoken rather inferred.


Since my accident in the shower Greg has been watching me like a hawk. He’s created a working, sleeping, and eating schedule which he enforces with an iron fist. Going from Tracy the caregiver to Tracy the patient has been tough.  You see, I don’t like being told what to do. I’m aware the schedule was created out of concern for my health but it still reeks of tyranny. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve stuck with it and followed it to the letter. I’m learning to relax.


Last night Greg kissed my forehead and said he was proud of me.

Yeah, it’s been worth it.