I love you, I love you, I love you.

6 years ago today the cute boy with the long hair kissed me for the first time in a dark nightclub, 3 hours after meeting me and 2 hours after asking me, jokingly, to go to New York with him the following Christmas.

It was the moment everything changed.

He called me the next day and we talked for four hours on the phone. About nothing and about everything. 

For our first real date he took me to Sainsbury’s as he had run out of bread and then for a curry. I didn’t like spicy food and I was so nervous my stomach hurt; I couldn’t eat a thing.

I read two books a week, drank more coffee (even then) than is probably considered healthy and had grown up in a house full of songs and card games. He only read car magazines, hated the very thought of coffee, had never heard of the Court of King Caratacus and had a smile that made my stomach flip over. It still does.

He was chardonnay and fast cars and New York City dreams; I liked books and the seaside and I never strayed too far from home. We were so different. We were chalk and cheese and it moved too fast. His dance music made me cringe and where he wanted bright lights and wine bars, I was happy on my sofa with a blanket and his arms around me. We probably shouldn’t have worked but somehow we  just did.

Who knew, that love could be like that?

I have loved him since that day; he has loved me without ever letting up.

It’s been hard. There have been trials and there have been tribulations but somehow, at the point that other people might have given up we’ve just held on tighter, digging in our heels and riding it through, believing wholeheartedly that whatever awaited us on the other side would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps there’s a stubborn streak in both of us, an ingrained need to not be defeated; perhaps it’s because somehow we both know how precious life can be: you have to live in the moment and take what you can and so we did.

We do.

Sometimes he kisses me and it’s like a promise: I will always love you.
Sometimes he kisses me and it’s like a point to prove: I will always love you.
Sometimes, he kisses me.

I am grateful for him, grateful for love, and so very aware of how rare and precious a thing it is. I don’t ever plan to let that – or him – go.

Happy 6 years, Boy Racer.  Here’s to the next six, and the rest of forever. Your face is my favourite of all the faces.

[And we made it to New York; he always comes good on his promises!]