I think I've finally got the word. But if I'm going to put a name to it, there's this matter of time and place.
I can't rightly change what we're calling it without good evidence.
So was it having to look at you for the first time after losing my arm and realizing that, somehow, you already knew?
No, no, no, that's much too late, I think. Was it meeting you - how many years ago is it now? - or not even; could it be when I saw you for the first time? Or was it when you saw me?
That can't be right though, not for us. We wouldn't be allowed something that romantic, plus the very suggestion would make you pull that face - you know the one.
Was that it, then? You rolling your eyes and heaving a smokey sigh for the first time - or was it when I first caught you doing it, not knowing how many times you'd done it before, and realized it was because of me?
I like that, but it's not quite right.
Maybe it was the moment you have to have with every crewmate before you truly understand each other: standing on the quarter deck in the dead of night because it just so happened neither of you could get to sleep. I've been there more than once with you (maybe it was that last time? or was it the time before?)
Could it be when I was so furious I had to ask for a drag on your cigarette and you never said a word - just held it still in front of my scowl? I don't remember, though, what went wrong that day, so that can't be it.
You'd think something like this would be obvious; I'm a little embarrassed it's not, actually. You won't hold it against me though, will you? I didn't think so, love. But let's see then...
Is it getting so drunk that I flirt with you?
Was it the day you cut your hair?
Or hearing you call me reckless and an idiot and a thousand other names because you can never just tell me that you were scared?
Hearing you laugh? Feeling it?
Was it any number of times we've brushed in passing or stood side by side in a battle? Maybe it's standing in front of you in a fight - or is it when you stand in front of me?
Is it the distance from the top of my head to the top of yours or the number of times you've touched my shoulders - I can count them on one hand.
Maybe it's waking up to see you shutting the door only to fall back asleep moments later under the warmth of a second blanket.
Is it you thinking I'm drunk enough that it's safe to flirt back? Or how terribly much I like the shape of your nose?
Maybe it was the day you told me nothing else I ever did could possibly surprise you - oh, wait, but I'm back where I started now, aren't I?
It's not really my area of expertise, but perhaps a word alone will be enough after all.
What I do know is that, for the moment at least, sitting here after getting Ben Beckman so wasted he's passed out - (sitting here in the shade with you so far gone, back to back) - I can no longer count the number of times he's touched my shoulders. (Your head is still there.) And so, if only just for the moment, I think I can call this love.