"I want the heavy fork..."

Something kind of magickal happened the other night with Andy. See, I was tired. Hella exhausted. Speaking softly, unable to muster volume, and words were escaping me. He'd come over to my place and was making us dinner, a lovely couscous with fresh asparagus, ramps and morel mushrooms; a spring vegetable heaven. He'd put out the plates and had just finished pouring the vinaigrette over the salad (vinaigrette: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, dill, shallots, stone ground mustard and honey--his papa's honey at that). I mumbled to him that I wanted "the heavy fork" and that it was in the dishwasher. He pulled open the door, and within seconds pulled out the right fork.

He pays attention. He knows these things, and he knows that I'm very particular about what things I eat and drink with, so he'll ask if I have a preference of coffee mug, or salad bowl, and it's without any chiding or condescension about how silly it really is. He knows what the heavy fork is. He loves me.