It is a balmy night, 78 degrees, and the ground is polka-dotted with the drops of a drizzle that came and went. I take Harvey out in the backyard, pausing our television viewing, recognizing his wide-eye stare and gentle pawing as the signal that he needs to go outside.
We return inside to the sofa, where we plop down next to Jeffrey and drape ourselves in a Peanuts blanket, cold from the central air that Jeffrey keep pumping because he is always warm.
A Cougar Town episode resumes playing on the TV, a silly comedy we both love and have seen several times. We discuss whether we’re stopping at one cocktail or having a second (I’m stopping at one; he’s going for round two.) We laugh at a line from the show we’ve heard a dozen times, then both reach down to pet our dog, who has already curled up in the crook between my legs and gone back to sleep.
The rest of the house is dark and quiet, and the neighborhood is the same. It’s just the sound of the TV, the air, and a nearly audible snore from Harvey. I place my hand in Jeffrey’s and sigh. He asks if I’m ok, and I look at him, smile, and say “this is the life.”
He smiles back and replies “it really is.”
For me, this is what happiness looks like.