So okay.
It was scary and all we could think about were the risks...the first time.
Progress, however, was only natural.
That is, if you can call 'progress' us making out at a military function long after we'd drunk ourselves silly. (But hey, the wine didn't tase much like alchohol, I thought it was sparkling grape juice)
But, as it turns out, we don't really have anything to worry about.
Looking back, the fear made this exciting.
Now, it's not. It's not dangerous or exciting and we've fallen into fucking routines.
I fucking live with a man a year and a half ago I couldn't stand.
And I'm comfortable.
Surprisingly, the world doesn't hate us. Not Al or anybody.
I guess his status puts us at an advantage.
He takes me on dates and I find myself wondering if this is still a bad thing, if people are secretly out to get us, even if they don't say so. He smiles, and we talk, and he is sweet and interesting.
Still, part of me wonders how we are still together. It's illogical, to say the least.
Then again, I am a man of science. Defining things isn't my forte.
He calls it progress.
He holds my hand across the table, then lifts it by my wrist.
He presses his lips to the top of my hand, and I blush. I feel like I could melt into my chair.
I find myself so out of character that I blurt out a question:
"Roy, is progress synonymous with love?"
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. After a moment he catches my meaning and smiles a small smile.
"In our case, it is."
So he calls it progress.
I -cautiously- call it love.