Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

Nothing happened.

That was the whole point.

She got home from work at half six and he was already there, which was unusual. He’d had an early finish, he said. She changed out of her work clothes — the daily shedding she’d come to love — and came back to find him making pasta with the slightly too much garlic they both preferred.

They ate at the kitchen table. He told her about something funny that had happened at work. She told him about a client call that had been simultaneously difficult and absurd, in the way that most things were once you got enough distance.

After dinner she washed up and he dried, which was their division because she found the washing meditative and he never could.

They watched one episode of the show they were working through, both slightly too tired to start a second.

She fell asleep before her book had been open for ten minutes. He took it gently from her hands and turned off the light and she was, dimly, aware of this, and it felt — the word she landed on, later — like the safest feeling she had ever had.

Before she slept she thought: this is it. This is the thing that people mean. Not the grand version. This — the garlic, the absurd client call, the dried dishes, the book taken from your sleeping hands.

Love at its most ordinary is love at its most true.

He was already asleep when she checked. She turned her lamp off and lay in the comfortable dark.

Outside, the ordinary city did its ordinary night things.

Inside, everything was enough.

✦  Today’s Reflection

Can you name a recent evening that looked like nothing and felt like everything — and have you let yourself appreciate it?

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