October 28, 2015

My dearest,

It’s a race.

Every night we’d be reading in bed. I’d be reading some literary whodunit and you’d be reading a Chinese fantasy novel. Sometimes we’d read blogs: you’d follow the nonsensical escapades of a Taiwanese blogger who discusses alternative uses for her bras and how to hijack a celebrity run; I’d salivate over bowls of ramen eaten by Americans living in Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka.

Then it’d be time for one last tinkle in the toilet bowl before turning in. You, by some freakish natural ability, will always pee faster than me. This doesn’t sound like much of an advantage till the next part inevitably happens.

You’d rush back into bed and hog all the pillows and my bolster, hugging all of them and proclaiming you’re already asleep and dreaming of cutie-pies. You’d leave the light on. I’d grumble and grouse, but I always turn the light off and then try and wrestle my bolster back from your grip. We’d tussle and insult each other but in the end, I’ll have my bolster back and your hand in mine.

Good night, baby, good night. Sleep tight till the first light.

Yours, ever and always.