...we are making dinner together.
I used to banish partners from the kitchen. Couldn't deal with the way they took up too much space, got in the way of my movements, were always, magically, exactly in the way. How is that possible, to always be in the wrong place? It was my domain. Get outoutout!
But it's the F-Word's space, too. He's okay playing second fiddle there. He asks me what to chop and what he can do next. More than that, I actually let him help. I've never been good at letting someone help before. He washes greens, sears meat, pours wine, and turns up the music. He doesn't mind that my grand plans of food-shopping and working out all have to happen before we can even begin to cook. He's okay with dinner at 9.
So am I. And I'm okay with him, all up in my space, forever.