Love you cannot feel.

SuperHusband was out of town the other night, so about nine o’clock he phoned. When he is home, at nine we put everything away, and then talk to each other until ten. It takes about half an hour of steady effort for a conversation to really get going, but most nights it is hard to go to bed at ten, because we are enjoying each other’s company.

The phone is not this way. We each give a quick summary of our day, discuss any topics that require spousal input, and then that’s it. Like a business call. Only with two tired people who already did enough business that day.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you,” I say.

And then we hang up.

And I thought to myself as I put down the phone, “Really? Do we love each other?”

We say it automatically. Maybe when he said it to me, he was feeling all warm and fond and grateful inside. Doubtful. But possible. I was feeling tired and distant and still a trace irritable from my lousy mood the day before.

 It is like water, the answer came immediately. Like warm water.

When you stick your hand in warm water, you notice it. Before, cold. After, warm. Ahh, you say. So nice.

After a while, you don’t feel it any more. The water is still warm, but now so are you. If you were to pull yourself out, you would suddenly feel very cold. But while you are in, you don’t notice the warm. You don’t notice anything. It’s just where your hand is.

To be swimming in love. Love so reliable, so steady, you can’t even feel it anymore. Happy.