Wednesday, half seven, and nothing dramatic happening at all

Nobody writes advertisements about the middle of this, so here is one. Wednesday, half seven, I am in from work and he has been home an hour. Dinner is on because Wednesday is his. I ask three questions about his day and he answers all three properly, because not answering properly has a consequence we agreed two years ago and have never once had to revisit.

That is what I am advertising for. Not the beginning of it. The eleventh month, and the fortieth.

Forty seven, out in the commuter belt, an hour in on a good morning. Two long dynamics behind me, the second lasting six years and ending because he wanted children and I did not. No bitterness in it, and I would say the same with him in the room.

What I run is domestic and unglamorous. Standing duties, one evening a week that is formal and the rest that is not, a proper sit down check in on Sunday nights, and correction that is a conversation rather than a performance. I am not theatrical. I have never raised my voice inside a dynamic and I am not going to start in my late forties.

Not looking for a man who wants intensity every night, because there is not enough of me left after that commute. Not looking for anybody who has to be reminded twice. Not looking for someone who reads the quiet stretches as the arrangement failing. The quiet stretches are the arrangement.