Here is a Tuesday, since nobody ever writes about the eight hundredth day

Here is a Tuesday, since everybody writes about first meetings and nobody writes about the eight hundredth day. He got in at half six and put the laundry on, because Tuesday is laundry. I was on the couch with work. At some point he brought me tea without being asked and I did not thank him, because we agreed a year earlier that I would stop, and that one small thing changed the texture of the entire apartment.

That is what I am looking for again. Not the beginning of it, which I have done twice and which is the least interesting part.

Thirty nine, Brooklyn, I work in architecture, nine years of leading, one relationship of five years that ended last winter when he wanted to move back to the city he grew up in and I did not.

What I run is quiet, domestic and continuous. Standing duties, one formal evening a week, and a real conversation on Sundays in which either of us can say what is not working while it is still small. I am not theatrical and I do not want to be addressed as anything in particular.

Not looking for a man who needs the temperature high all the time, because a small apartment cannot sustain it and neither can I. Not looking for anybody who reads a quiet month as a failure. Not looking to start again from nothing with somebody who wants teaching, which I have done twice and no longer have in me.