A dumb, tiny thing we love doing together: laundry.
I’m picky about folding, so I’ll do it myself, but I enjoy his company while I do it. I ask him to help me with laundry. I’ll even ask him to do the laundry. But he knows that while I’m not one hundred percent a perfectionist, my brain has its moments, and the itch of folding laundry the right way — my way — is soothing. So he lets me.
It’s not because he’s lazy or doesn’t want to do it. It’s because he loves me.
This is quite literally what’s happening right now. We just got home from the butcher with some rib steaks for our anniversary dinner. We’re going to have hamburgers for lunch, and while I was getting that stuff out, he said, “I’ll go start the laundry.”
And I paused.
Hesitated.
He asked me, “What?”
And I said, “How about you do this and I’ll go start the laundry.”
He’s cooking (and somewhat burning, lmao) the frozen burgers on the stove, but I’m dressing the buns. I came back upstairs. He got the condiments out for me.
He knew.