Do I Have Anything in My Teeth?

teeth

Reason #1,457 I need my husband to come home: he would never let me leave a sandwich shop with basil in my teeth.

When Tim first visited me in Seattle, I dragged him around the city because I wanted him to fall in love with it like I had. Pike Place Market was at the top of the list. He had to see the flying fish, of course, but most importantly he had to eat a gyro at Mr. D’s Greek Delicacies.

His pita was filled with meat, mine with veggies and feta; both were the kind of messy you don’t plan for on a date. But they were so delicious we just had to laugh. When I was done, I turned to him and flashed a toothy grin. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

He looked surprised, as though he wouldn’t have anticipated that kind of familiarity. His surprise surprised me, because being together just felt so simple. So easy. Like I didn’t have to overthink everything like I was so used to, especially around guys. He felt like an old trusted friend, not the romantic pen pal who had once kissed me and was now following me around my city.

But this dichotomy wasn’t new to us, this strangeness and familiarity all blending together. He was my missing piece, my long-lost friend, my other reader, the one I had been waiting for.

He grinned right back. “Gross,” he said. “You should probably find a mirror.”

He was teasing me, which I soon learned was an act of love.

 

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