It was nearly 2 am. The bedside lamp bathed the room in an orangey hue. I watched as she rubbed the moisturiser onto the dry peeling skin on my legs. I have little sensation there. Everytime she applied the moisturiser, there was a faint tingling and I knew some parts of my leg no longer looked dry and chapped, the peeling bits masked by the thick cream temporarily.
When she had finished with both legs, she came close and rested her head on my shoulder. The moisturiser’s sweet fragrance wafted in the air, intermingling with the odour of the cold from the air conditioner.
In that affectionate instance, I asked her, “How long have we been together?”
She started counting, “1998… 99… Six years.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Why do you ask?” She turned her head, gazed into my eyes and then snuggled closer.
We both knew the answer. That was something that we do occasionally to reassure ourselves that this is all for real. I smiled at her and looked into the distance lazily again, counting my blessings and all the love that she had showered on me.