Love Does Not Remain The Same

During wedding anniversaries, we are obliged with online displays of affection. In our 7-year honeymoon, I reveled with what I thought a husband should be: to perceive what my wife desires, to earn her respect and trust everyday, to lavish her with affection. I am fortunate to be at the receiving end of this love from your incorruptible heart.

As we speak of marriage, I am using my freedom to stand for marriage equality. I stand with everyone in the LGBT community in their legal and human right to marry who they choose as partners. Love does that, my D. says, it breaks walls, and it transforms us into becoming the best version of ourselves.

I love you, my D. Thank you for making me deserve your love.

Breaking Up with Whisky

I drink it alone. At first, because, D. has a child in her womb, and second, because I usually would prefer drinking by myself. It rekindles the familiar aloneness. I toast to being solitary knowing that when I will wake up in bed with the family I love.

Drinking alone also means I get to read or watch my programs, instead of obliging uninteresting conversations where I end up blabbering something stupid. So I read at least two JM Coetzee short novels so far this year, and enjoyed them both in evenings with whisky.

I enjoy whisky better than wine because while they both speak the truth, whisky says so straightforwardly and powerfully. You taste the aged malt, the barley and their dozen years of imponderable waiting in oak barrels. The flavor cracks itself open against solid, clinking ice. It's an appreciation of history and craftsmanship and you feel it in your face, instantly and slightly contorting, hitting that nerve that needs hitting. Gold gushes down your throat and you exhale with effusive satisfaction, like you don't need anything else. Except maybe for a bag of savory hot peanuts.

After two or thee quick double shots, my limbs soften and my get a bit too misty for reading. The bottle plays me with its coquetry, I'm tempted to maybe have another one until I let myself be caressed into sleep. It fills the empty spot just enough, enough to make sure there'll be another one for a different night.

So before the nights become too many and too often, I decide it's time for a temporary break-up. You've flirted with me too often, and too often have I fallen. Tonight, and at least 99 other nights, I will not have any of you.

In my heart, and upon my liver, I swear we will spend these nights again.