It’s the fact that he says « It’s escaped me » and not « Shit, I forgot » or anything else. It’s because he says things in just the way he says things.
It’s the fact that he reads to me. We lay there like dear old friends and he reads me « The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. »
It’s the way he reads with a deadpan delivery that makes the story sound even more amusing.
It’s the fact that he is re-reading the Adrian Mole books by Sue Townsend in honour of her passing this week. Only such a lovely man would think of and carry out such a lovely memorial.
It’s the fact that he borrows from the library.
It’s the fact that he calls me Sweet Pea and Sugar Plum and Buttercup and Estelle and Mademoiselle Petitfour and My Sweet Complicated Doll. And when he really wants me to know he means something, he calls me Christina. It’s all these names.
It’s the fact that he writes me proper letters beginning « Dear, Estelle » when he texts or emails. That’s something!
It’s because he rides a bicycle and doesn’t own a damn thing.
It’s the fact that he finds people without vice a bore and my crazy moments « intoxicating. »
It’s so many beautiful, wonderful, pure and lovely things. But still, in all this, I do not love him. It is the saddest thing of all.