I Wonder, Would It Change a Thing At All?

The Story About Him And I

I'd like to tell you a story of what it's like between him and I. How we love each other's company, that I crave his and he craves mine. But we are not dependent on one another, we are a unit, a team, but one made up of two independent individuals.

We know the little things about each other. I know that his favorite color is green, just as he knows that mine is blue. I know he hates apple juice, just as he knows that I love it. He tells me that he can't help but smile at the way my nose crinkles when I'm confused or when I don't like something, and I tell him that his laughter is the most wonderful sound I've ever heard and that it makes my heart soar.

Like any couple, we have our fights. Sometimes they are over petty things, like what we should have for dinner or who should get up to get the remote; and sometimes they're all out screaming matches, where we yell at each other until our faces are blue and our voices are hoarse. Fights like those usually end with one or both of us storming off, but after cooling down, one of us either immediately apologizes or the night is spent trying endlessly to fall asleep whilst still pissed off and the morning is spent resolving things over the phone or in person.

But that does not mean that we do not care, for I know that he would hold me close, has done so, should I ever need to cry, planting a kiss on my head and telling me that everything will be alright. And he knows that I would do the same for him, have done the same for him, should he ever need it.

Sometimes our conversations consist of silly things, like which one of us will become an astronaut, or occasionally, who would make the best Batman. And sometimes our conversations are about our futures. What jobs would we have? What kind of house would we live in? How many kids would we have? What would their names be?

I loved the thought of starting a family with him, and he loved it too, and some nights we would talk endlessly about how our kids would look or act or do in school. Sometimes they would have his eyes and my nose, and sometimes they would have his smile and my dimples, and sometimes they'd look nothing like either of us, because they weren't our children by blood but by bond. They would be brainiacs, so polite it made you want to puke; or maybe they would be rebels, and we would have to learn when to put our foot down and when to reason with them. But we would always listen to what they had to say.

And even though we knew that some of these things were impossible for us, we thought of them anyway, our smiles big and our laughter bright. I do not think any of these things will change, regardless of whether we're seventeen or seventy. I wonder what you think of this story, this one about he and I. I wonder, also, if your thoughts would change if I were to tell you that I, too, was a boy. Or perhaps, maybe, if I was a girl, and he was, too. I wonder, would it change a thing at all? And at the inevitability of some of your answers being yes, I am also forced to wonder just precisely why that is.