The kind of man I'd fall in love with stocks the fridge the Thursday before his kids come home from college, guessing madly at anything they might need. How many jars of olives is too many? Better to waste money than to leave them hungry.
He makes red bean cakes for Lunar New Year even though he doesn't celebrate. He says "fuck these men" with absolute conviction when girls around him talk about their exes, and refuses to use the word "good" to describe anything, ever. Not when there are thesauruses filled with more precise alternatives, and languages invented for this exact purpose.
Good conversations get his entire attention. He talks to you like you're the most fascinating thing around, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
He fights to believe the best in people, and compliments them both to their face and behind their backs. He'd watch the Meta episode of Acquired and stare with wonder as I rant about the media bias, because he doesn't like me better when I'm dying. He just likes me better.
He'd ask why I'm not a writer, even though the only thing I write consistently these days are Beli reviews and rigorous mathematical proofs.
He scribbles reminders on his palm because adult-ing will always be new to him, no matter how long he's been doing it.
He has the kind of relationships that transcend words. His best friend from college can read his mind with a quick glance, and he calls his mother as often as she needs to still feel involved in his life.
He gets on his knees to get the better angles while taking pictures, and is comfortable enough in his masculinity to pull his friends closer even as the party screams, kiss! kiss! kiss!
He's everyone's favorite person. And his favorite person is me.
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