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Every couple I have ever been a part of has secretly been defined by a superlative. We were: the smartest; the most creative; the most working class; the most adventurous; the humblest; the most beautiful; the sanest. After-movie conversations confirmed our common beliefs, "Didn't you think that part was weird?" We talked about other people and their craziness, or squareness, their fundamental 'otherness', performed rituals based on shared interests or desires: dancing in the street, or midnight pizza, computer games or road trips to the swamp. You find something that binds you together and make it infinite. You share a life together, built of the stuff that holds you together: brains, or creativity, or work ethic. And of course it's more complicated than that, some alchemic combination of discrete elements that transforms into something more, into the two of you. And I can dissect this, leave it flayed and quivering on the table, no longer that magic ephemeral thing, but instead a carefully described set of behaviors and feelings, but guess what? It's still magic, it's still actually ineffable, every time. The tiny noises he makes in his sleep, his hand on my tummy. And the repetition and the boundless variation make it no less magic. It's love, what else is there to say?
