His jeans hang. An old pair. But they fit just right. The shirt is one I designed the year we were married. An ordinary outfit. But when he wears it . . . with a simple pair of grey running shoes . . .
I think he looks like a rock star. Better than Bono and his sunglasses.
Because the Engineer is mine.
Ordinary. Dealing with life together. Basements that leak. Drains that erupt like toxic geysers. Children that interrupt whispers in the ear. Ordinary moments with one extraordinary person.
In the ordinary . . . that is where I fall more madly in love with this man . . . my Engineer. He turns 34 in a few minutes. An ordinary number. But with each year, he becomes anything but ordinary.
The Engineer . . . he is the antithesis of ordinary. And he is mine.
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