I dig through the basket of unfolded but clean clothes for my favorite tee as he saunters down the dark hallway.
I can hear his ankles clicking.
What’s that bone called anyway?
. . . I googled it; it’s called a malleolus.
Yes, saunters. He’s in no rush.
We both move a little slower these days. Whether it’s our years catching up to us or the feeling of being settled—finally, blissfully settled—I’m not sure, but the saunter suits him.
So, I linger.
I stop searching for my beloved white tee and I watch him as the expanse of his back seemingly fills our hallway, drinking him in as the sun begins its ascent just outside our open windows.
Slow. It suits us.