Sometimes I think I loved his imperfections more than I loved him.
I loved eating his burned pancakes, and smoothing out his crumpled shirts.
I loved how his necktie was always crooked,
and how his hand-me-down dark khaki pants were frayed on the bottom because he was shorter than his brother but didn’t want to get them hemmed.
I loved how he snored like a baby, but only after his hand had found mine in the dark.