deliberate. languid. measured. steady.

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.