I crouch down at the end of your massive bookshelf — the one that occupies an entire corner of your not so large living room. I flip open the pages; I scan the words, but get distracted by the many colors of all the other books living in that corner of the room.

Before you respond, I shelve the book and pull out another. I flip open a random page and scan the first few sentences. I do this a few times, somewhat frenetically, totally randomly. I’m not really looking for anything. I’m just looking to look.

You watch me with my shoulders hunched and head tilted downward. And you don’t say a thing.

You don’t say a damn word.

I kind of like the silent attention. I feel your eyes on me; I bask in it. After a few minutes, I turn to face you square on. You fold up your lanky legs like an origami crane and look at me sheepishly when we make eye contact.

And I love it.

Slowly, I make my way to your sofa and take a seat. I fold my knees up to my chest and smile. And you smile back.

Oh, how you smile back.

—

In college, this is how I dreamed I would meet “The One” — how I dreamed we would start falling in love.

In real life, it ended up being so different. The man that I am positive about starting a life with, the only man that I can imagine having children with, is nothing like the man that was in my head. His bookshelf filled with unenviable items that I would never read. His stature not lanky. His demeanor not shy.

But he turned out to be better than I could ever imagine.

Better than I could ever ever dream.