He fixes the laundry machine when I say it is grounded. He’d rather get electrocuted than hear my endless complaints.
He takes care of me when I am drunk, damping warm towel on my face making sure I am fine, and guides me to the trash bin when I am about to throw off.
He asks me to lay my head on his shoulder during jeepney and bus rides whenever I am sleepy; he holds my hand as if reassuring me I’m nothing but safe.
He carries the heavy loads whenever we’re on the road with our big backpacks. I get to bring my personal stuff and nothing else. I enjoy letting him carry our lumpish whatever-it-is.
He cooks our food. I only eat but don’t cook.
He, without hesitations, will rush to the store when I say I want iced-cold Coke and Zebzeb.
He constantly reminds me that I always look upset by calling me Simang as in simangot. And so I have no choice but to always put up a smile.
He is my number one and only fan who never fails to encourage me to write by filling my heart with kind words and praises. He knows that I am a horrible writer.
He’d go outside the tent during rainy wee hours just to adjust the guy-lines when I tell him that the rain is dripping inside and that I feel cold.
When I am gloomy, he’d make funny gestures regardless if he looks stupid or idiotic.
I could go on enumerating the things that make him great, I still have a lot on my list. But like everyone else, he is just human. There’s nothing divine in him. He also has these flaws, which are completely normal.
He takes pictures of me when I look absurd while sleeping; he’d then show it to me and make fun of me.
He doesn’t like combing his curly hair and the falling strands are all scattered on our floor.
I’d see a point to slightly remind him that I love to receive flowers. Well, he gave me A flower (A = one) once. It is an origami from foil of a cigarette pack.
He is fond of disturbing me while I am in the middle of writing an ultimately difficult article by dashing my keyboard and mouse. When I look at him, I’d see a mischievous smile and laughing eyes.
He doesn’t get mad when I call him names—Taba, Kulot, Tabachoy, Kalbo—as he gets more even by calling me Payat, Negra, Bubwit, and a lot more and eventually leading to me getting annoyed.
He makes these out-of-this-world requests like me sleeping outside our bedroom.
Despite all these, I still thought he is perfect. But then he has this dark secret that I’ve recently realized and discovered.
He is Robin Hood, a thief. He easily nipped not only my last name and replaced it with his but he also stole my heart and has no plans of returning it.
He is Harry Potter, a sorcerer. He put me on a curse of eternal love. I am under a spell of forever loyalty and faithfulness. I was given a magic potion to perpetual adventures with him.
He is Rowjie and I just married him.