“Tell me one thing you love about me,” I said, “because lately I don’t feel as if you like me very much.”

“Your kindheartedness,” he answered. “You give everyone the benefit of the doubt.” Then he added “Except me, these days.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“What do you love about me, then? Because I don’t feel very well liked by you, either.”

“Well, you *are* the Nicest guy I know. That is,” I said with a grin, “when you choose to be.”

We both had to throw in those little qualifiers, pointing out that though the other possesses these beloved traits, we aren’t seeing them expressed in our mutual dealings.

There are a lot of things I like about this man. I enjoy his sense of humour; he’s got a goofy, playful wit. I like his all-around competency and confidence in his physical surroundings. I like his shy yet friendly way of greeting people on the street, and the decent way he pulls over to help anyone in trouble on the side of the road. I like his respectfulness to the elderly, and the smiling face he presents to small children. I like his huge appetite for food and sex, and his concern for animals. I just plain like him.

Another thing I like is that while we are dancing to, for instance, Roy Forbes’ CD, and Lonesome Whipporwill comes on, I am not the only one who sings along. Loverboy does too. You can’t help it, of course -- it’s Lonesome Whipporwill after all, and who doesn’t know at least *some* of the words, and Roy’s done such a stellar job of covering it -- but I’ve never been comfortable enough to sing while I’m in a man’s arms, and now I am, and he sings too even though he thinks he’s tone deaf.

It’s easier to articulate what frustrates and hurts than what I find appealing, than what is loving and giving.

I ought instead to shine a light on the way he makes the kids laugh.

I like the way he looks in his jeans and T-shirts, his jackets. I like his hands. He’s got strong hands, almost elegant in their movement, yet solidly masculine and highly sensual. His blue eyes are very large, and his dark hair thick and unruly. He has a Cheshire cat grin, wholesome in its toothiness.

Somebody ... SSStop me!