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Dinah

I eat my cereal and ignore my phone, which is lighting up with texts from Freddie. Joe enters the kitchen, and I turn it over on the table so he won’t see the notifications.

“Morning.” My husband is wearing his charcoal suit today, the one with pale-blue pinstripes that are so faint you can only see them close up. I love that suit; it fits his build perfectly and highlights the bit of gray that is beginning to appear in his hair.

I can’t wait for him to go fully gray. It will be a badge of honor in our marriage, visible proof of our longevity.

Each of those silver hairs will be born and mature under my watch.

I’m not sure if every wife feels this level of possession over them, but I do.

Turning gray is a vulnerable moment, one that I have an exclusive front-row seat to.

When we lie next to each other on the couch, I run my fingers across his scalp, exploring how coarse the silver are compared to the black.

They curl more; Joe has always had such stick-straight hair, but now it’s becoming a messy sea of dips and valleys. I love the transition.

“You teaching today?” I ask before I take a spoonful of cereal.

I know the answer but like to let him think that I don’t.

Joe’s first lecture is at eleven, his second at three thirty.

He’ll drive the half hour over to the clinic in between to check on his patients and do his rounds.

Which means his patients will all see this side of him: his tailored suit pants, his crisp white button-up shirt, the cornflower-blue tie tightly knotted at his neck.

He’ll swap out the gray jacket for the white lab coat and likely hang a stethoscope around his neck, even though he rarely takes vitals.

It’s for the aesthetics, and aesthetics is something he’s always done to perfection.

It’s one of the reasons I was drawn to and fell for him.

Every detail of his life was in order. Crisp and clean.

Compared to the turbulent madness of my family and upbringing, it was like crawling into a bed at a five-star hotel. A cocoon of safety and luxury.

That’s how our marriage is. Perfect aesthetics.

It took me two years with Joe to understand what was necessary to maintain that level of peace and order. The sacrifices for the perfection.

I reach over and tap the top of the folder by his place at the table. “Don’t forget that.”

He picks it up and tucks it under his arm. “I’ll see you tonight.” He steps forward and kisses me on the top of the head, and he smells like his coconut shampoo and eucalyptus bodywash. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” I tilt back my chin, and he kisses me on the mouth, then gazes down at me for a moment, his eyes warm, his mouth in a slight smile.

The sacrifices are steep but worth it. For this man, I would do anything.