how hard we love

I love living with a musician. I love watching him, like this. Peering from around the wing of the couch as he sits at his keyboard playing silence and hollow plonks, the secret music feeds into headphones and he's inside himself and in front of me at once. Tonight, he is wearing his favourite brown sweater and blue jeans. Mismatched socks ("there's another pair just like this in the drawer"). Newly acquired (read: required. The week before his 30th birthday, natch) spectacles are slipping south as he bends to make a note on the chart papers in front of him. He looks handsome and noble.

We both hammer away at our keys. I solve problems and ease minds, he poses questions in sonata form. Sometimes I try to type rhythmically along with him and we sound good together.