I don't take pictures of her sleeping

We are in bed, the bathroom light still on. It has a sensor, giving a few minutes of diffuse light before extinguishing for the night. I look over it and, for a moment, my partner of ten years is a beautiful stranger.

I study her features until the light dims, goes out, then a little longer to the dark.

I had some relationship stress in the last few days, escalated by my depression. Amber was rude about an ingredient in a dinner I had made for her, which is time-consuming, but I assumed it was close to her favorite. She immediately copped to the rudeness and apologized. This is where the story would end in an average mind.

She left for work. I had a long, one-sided argument with her in absentia before she returned home before deciding that I would always keep the missing ingredient on hand so that this could never be an issue again. It didn't solve the core issues, but it would prevent the side effect. (I am surprisingly tetchy about her criticizing my dinner-making, as she abdicated all responsibility for doing it years ago. It takes around an hour out of my day, not counting planning menus two weeks in advance and shopping for groceries. Though I have grown to like cooking, it is still a daily chore.)

It only took one slight that would barely glance off me in a better mental state. All the pressure returned.

Beyond the first month that we were together, when I was frustrated because I had just finally accepted that I wanted to be single and immediately fell in love with her, I wanted to be with Amber.

I wonder what it would be to meet her now, to fall in love afresh without commingled laundry and finances. I won't ever have this. We are too well known to be other. I don't have the pleasure of discovering her intricacies for the first time, only the small artifacts of our hours apart, complaining of work disappointments and struggles. We share so much of our cultural referents and social media friends that we cannot even make the other giggle with memes. We've seen them all.

Yet, for these few moments in the dark, I feel that I do not know this specific woman in my bed. I devoured the iterations that have preceded this present. I can recite details about them, but they no longer are the Amber that I can hold. This Amber bears similarities to the one who first fell for me, but that Amber has not been in my bed for a long time. It is, very literally, not the same bed.

She has no competition for my attention, nor can I imagine one. Since meeting Amber -- any version of Amber -- there has never been a woman who even caught my eye.

Amber could probably say all this of me. I can even be a stranger to myself when my head is not in check.

Yet she loves me. She's grateful for my company and devotion. I have allowed her the strength and freedom to become the woman she is today, who is only a transitional form to she will be in a year. She may become a stranger to herself if she's not already. Where is that Etsy artist with the acorn earrings, the one who dressed in fluffy Gothic lolita and went to dinner with me dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, even though it was not near Halloween?

I enjoyed building this love with Amber a decade ago. It ranks among my favorite experiences -- many of which also featured her. I think sometimes -- but not too much -- of paths I wish I had not taken, but I would not want to risk missing a chance to meet Melanie, who helped me become the man who could love Amber. With a few tweaks, I could have lived a better, happier, healthier life for around a decade before beginning this chapter of my life, but I would not want to risk not ending up with Amber. I belong with her and -- even as mutual strangers -- in a way that I have not belonged before. I've been in love and loved people. I have grown and changed under years of bed sheets. It was not like this.

I was ready for Amber. I doubt I would have been prepared for anyone else, nor would they have been open enough to take this adventure with me.

I look over at the stranger in our bed, her breath already slow and deep in sleep (after a decade, I know when she has fallen asleep). I feel fortunate to have this version beside me. I look forward to the one who comes next.

Soon in Xenology: A new job.

last watched: Venture Brothers
reading: Final Events