Oh baby you're the One
They are each others 'the one.'
Not in a lovey-dovey endearing way with whispered declarations in the dark, nor with the cutesy picnics or lame matching t-shirts either. They do not swap spit in the janitors closet during stolen moments at work, or call each other six thousand times a day 'just to see what you're doing' or 'just to say I love you', though they do manage to maintain a healthy does of "lively conversations." They do not call each other 'honey,' 'sweetie,' or 'snookums.'
They do come home to the same modern meticulously decorated home, with slightly less than frilly forest green curtains, a deeply soft, wrap around sofa and a king size bed. When she comes home almost two hours after he has, and he is sprawled on said sofa in his boxers with an open beer in one hand and a devilish glint of a grin at the programming of choice, and the place is certainly less clean than she left it, she does not yell or get upset because when she makes her way to the kitchen she finds he has made her dinner. She merely runs a hand through his hair in appreciation as she passes on the way to the shower.
When he slips in behind her under the warm spray, she gently turns him around and massages away the aggressive annoyances of the day, letting her hands glide smoothly over the familiar contours of his troubles muscles. When they reach for and cling to each other in the night, hoping to disguise their need and desperation with tiredness, failing miserably, they are like two oddly shaped puzzle pieces that fit together so well you forget about the rest of the puzzle for a moment in amazement and admiration.
They are not near normality or the par of perfection, but most assuredly, comfortably and confidently are 'the one.'