Husband

So, I've been struggling with a name for THE HUSBAND, the man who encourages me to take my wine and diary and books upstairs when I need a break, the man who uses his sick leave to take The Kid to the doc without complaint, the man who holds me every night. The man who expects nothing less than full-fledged partnership in return for his constant calm and presence. And I have no mystical, mysterious name for him because, frankly, he think mystical, mysterious things are voodoo. He's a down-to-earth kind of guy. The kind of guy who never, ever speaks unless he's thought it through. Try it sometime. Don't say a word until you have analyzed every infinitesimal meaning of what you're about to say, until you have dissected the situation you are in and have thought about your proposed solution from every possible angle. Only after you have let it sit in your brain awhile, then speak.

You will be right EVERY SINGLE TIME.

This is weird in a relationship, annoying, but also very, very comforting. There's no name to do him justice. He doesn't believe in true love - or so he says - but he's the guy who's loved me more than any other man. Since he doesn't believe in true love, I can't call him Angel (Buffy the Vampire Slayer's True Love), or Edward (Bella's). Or Aragorn or Sam (my perfect ideal man) or Heathcliff. The drama those characters intone is too mushy-mushy. It has to be simple, unassuming. It's the kind of love that will stick for fifty or so years, like a really good metaphorical oatmeal sticks to the metaphorical ribs. You don't get hungry again after metaphorical oatmeal. I think I'll call him Old Man Yaga, as in my ball and chain, the one who keeps me from flying off the broom handle, the one who keeps me grounded.

The one who giggles at me when I get all worked up. Old Man Yaga is no longer ______.