I take my laundry to the wash and fold next door, and it’s owned by the nicest Asian couple on earth. Wait, nicest Asian man—his wife is kind of miserable. But the husband, what a gem!
I see him getting on the bus sometimes, and he’s never not smiling. He waves at me emphatically from across the street, and I feel like he likes me as much as I like him. We have a thing going on.
He speaks maybe four or five words of English: “Hello!” “Tomorrow morning!” “Okay!” “Bye bye!” We understand each other.
When I dropped off my laundry this morning, he got a phone call from a man yelling about a sweater. When he hung up the phone, he asked me, “Sweater?”
Him: “Sweater. Yes, yes! Sweater?”
Me: “Umm… Yes?”
Me: “It’s… like, a SWEAT-ER. Like, what IS a SWEAT-ER?”
Me: “OK. [Looks for sweater on the rotation rack. No sweater. Points to scarf.] Like this. Knit. KNIT! But BULKY. LARGE. LAAAARGE.”
Me: [Looks for sweater. Finds a sweater!] “This! SWEATER!” Him: “Yes. Sweater.”
He knew what a sweater was the whole time! So I think that exchange was us getting Asian married.
Oh my God. I want him in my life. Nicole too.
I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything, about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life.