It is found in the monotony: of laundry, that mountain of dishes (I’ll wash – you dry), the folding – which leads to the ironing. All that damn ironing.
One will always make the coffee – again, an inevitability. And there are never enough mugs. In the house. In the world. Never will be.
The humming, mine. The whistling, yours.
Our boring, lovely normalcy.
Everything left with coffee stains and red wine rings. I promise. Pinky swear. As if any of it can – or would – be changed. Our it.