THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open when it's our anniversary

Ten years. I had to count on my fingers twice to be sure, because it doesn't feel like ten. It feels like last Tuesday and also like we've always been here.

I wrote this on our first anniversary, in the tiny apartment with the radiator that clanked all night, and I sealed it for today because I wanted to see if I was right about you.

I was right about you.

Here is what I guessed we'd have by now: a real couch, a dog, at least one terrible argument about the dishwasher, and a running joke that nobody else understands. I'm guessing we have all four. I'm guessing the joke is still about the moose.

What I didn't know, a year in, was what it would feel like to be known this well. To have someone who can tell from the way I put my keys down whether it was a good day. To stop performing. That's the thing I'm most grateful for. Not the big moments. The ordinary Tuesday nights, eating cereal for dinner, your feet on my lap.

Thank you for choosing me every day, even the days I made it hard. Especially those.

Happy anniversary. Let's do the next ten exactly like this, but with a better radiator.

Chris

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