The woman can't make coffee.
She tried, once. Bless her little heart. See, I've picked up some Southern from her. It was… imagine the worse coffee ever made and multiply that by about nine. She's not allowed near a coffee pot again.
My Little Menehune. Kono named her for the little Hawaiian spirits that bring love and happiness and good luck. Five minutes after that big Hawaiian met a tiny woman from Louisiana he gave her a Hawaiian name. That should have been a clue. I should have known that magic was in the air.
Or maybe it's those big green eyes that look up at me with that steady intelligent gaze that cops don't see that often. Those big dark green eyes with black rings around the irises; eyes that are deep and dark enough to drown in. Eyes that sometime lose focus and stare off into the distance, seeing nothing except the nightmares that are replaying in her mind.
My god in heaven, why are we sending women into combat?
There are nights she can't sleep. Then there are the nights when she wakes up screaming. Those are the nights I just hold her and tell her everything will be alright. That she has nothing to be afraid of because I will protect her and keep her safe. Her nightmares are fueled by explosions, machine gun fire, and oil fields burning in the desert. Mine are fueled by the fear of not being there when she wakes screaming.
She drives too fast and plays her music too loud. She has this thing about heavy metal music that I will never comprehend, although I will reluctantly admit that I'm starting to like Blue Oyster Cult and Aerosmith. She loves jazz, especially anything with a sax playing in the background, and the old crooners that I still have on vinyl. She thinks pop music should be banned from the airwaves, and has given me a deeper appreciation for Jimmy Buffett. Who knew he sang about anything other than cheeseburgers, margaritas, and getting drunk? She's got me reading Terry Pratchett. Now that's a man who understands cops. She once told me I reminded her of Sam Vimes. Three books later I knew it was a compliment.
She loves the ocean and the water and sleeping with the windows open to let in the sound of the surf. There are nights when we lie on a blanket in the back yard watching the stars and listening to the ocean. On those rare mornings when neither of us has to be at work we walk on the beach at sunrise and make love until noon. Somehow she's managed to erode several layers of cynicism from my soul, making the world a little shinier.
She's given me a level of peace and contentment that I thought I would never have.
She still can't make coffee…. It doesn't matter.