I love my husband.

He’s an old-school, hard-working, hard-playing kind of guy. He’s guns and dogs and motorcycles. He wears wool socks with his sandals. He doesn’t give a lick about fashion or style and he wouldn’t have a clue about designer anything. He’s meat and potatoes and chocolate cake once in a while for dessert.

We’ve travelled some rocky roads for sure, but he’s the one for me. We’re gonna grow old together. Sooner rather than later, it feels like.

I peeked over at him the other evening. He was holding down one couch and I was stretched out on the other. He’s always looked younger than his age, but that evening he looked… old. He’d had a long day, worked hard at his job and then at home with all the things needing attention, and it showed. I could see, in the weariness on his face, the old man he would one day be.

It set me back a breath.

Time marches, leaving its mark on us in all kinds of ways.

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