him choosing my bed

Since we’ve been on this quarantined crusade to stay home and flatten the curve, my boyfriend Tom, has been in my home with me and the kitties. I joked in the beginning that this was our ‘trial run’ of living together, but now I think it’s safe to say the trial period is over ‘cause homeboy is - like - LIVING HERE.

This morning, I woke up and I go, “Baby?”
”Hmm?” he grunts.
'“Do you sometimes miss your quiet cozy bed?”
(Pause) “Sometimes.”
”Do you sometimes miss your quiet, cozy, pukeless, catless, dim lit bedroom…?”
”I don’t want to talk about it.”

My cat, Carmen, has been throwing up everyday - on her cat bed, on the couch, on our blankets, on the floor in a spot we don’t notice until we’ve stepped in it …and that’s what happened last night. Tom stepped square into a steaming pile of cat vomit at around 1:15 in the morning while trying to get into bed.

I think about the bed in his apartment: SOOOOO COZY. Like, unbelievably cozy. Like ‘I never want to get out of it’ cozy. It was the real deal. My bed is cozy, but two huge cats stomp on our heads and limbs throughout the night, the street is right below my window and these trucks and muscle cars barge by like nobody’s business, and in the morning, my room is BRIGHT AF. (I need good curtains.)

So, I wonder sometimes, if he misses his own room. HE MUST. But…he’s been choosing my bed, every night, for the past seven weeks. He’s been choosing this imperfect situation of shlepping things over to my apartment and dealing with cat puke and clutter and a temperamental toilet all because I’m a part of it.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed (duh! I’m writing about it) and this current living situation has us casually mentioning how funny our one-day kid is gonna be and what we want in a home together… and it’s been filling my cup all the way up.

So to him, I say: Baby, I promise, I’m going to make you the BEST. DAMN. BED. you’ve ever seen… ‘til then, my love. I’ll choose you always.