Thursday night, we slide into a booth at a brewery in the center of a gorgeous, deconstructed factory district turned popular hangout. The sun is just setting as we start to look over menus, and it's long set when, in between bites of my burger, I hear a familiar song by Tokyo Police Club over the speakers and look up to talk about it.

Maybe it's the way he carefully showed me around the apartment--opening doors and cupboards to show me exactly where everything was--when I arrived, earlier that day. It could have been his apparent and contagious excitement at seeing me, or the way he chuckled when I let him pay for our lunch, or even how he radiated joy from all the possibilities his life has been bringing him lately, while we walked through the campus gardens, that afternoon. It might have even been the way he chose an outfit based on what I was wearing--how he stood, staring into his closet, until I had a dress picked out for sure, and then took a matching shirt off its hanger--like it was no big deal, like this whole relationship was second nature.

I couldn't tell you which; but in all the days, weeks, months, years I've been in love with him, this moment--filled with comfortable conversation and laughter flowing freely--is by far the moment I love him most.

He furrows his brow at me, across the table; "What?"

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