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Entry 17. Of Hank Haymoor's Charming And Infuriating Traits


Hank Haymoor is a man in his thirties with a peculiar moustache that turns at it’s tips like waves. His brown shirt’s buttons are always crooked as if he had simply learnt an unusual way to button his shirts. His tall straight back is carried by tall straight legs... and if he so wishes, he can run like a horse.


He is my husband, and I hate him. I also love him. This is what I have concluded marriage to be, a dualistic dance of opposite emotions, caused by excessive time spent in one person’s company.


I hate him, because he bites his nails whenever he thinks hard.


I love him, because he smells of smoke, wool and chipped wood.


I hate him when he talks to me like to a child.


I love him when he laughs by instinct and from his heart like a child.


I hate him when he talks for ages about his fields, assuming the subject can hold my interest.


I love him when he embraces me from behind and lifts me in the air.


I hate him when he points at things furiously when he is angry. As if some crucial evidence supporting his argument would lie in West and another in East.


I love him when he shows me his 'world famous' apple trick hundredth time like it would be the first time.


I hate him when he looks at me darkly, suspecting I have been unfaithful.

I love him when he looks at me tenderly, silent.

Hank Haymoor, my love. You should not worry. I will keep my promise this once. Not because I love you. My heart is vast and I have loved many. All whom I have loved, I have left.


Aside for you.

I will keep my promise for the moments in which I hated you and you hated me. And despite that infuriating frustration for some peculiar reason we both decided to remain in here. Is that not stronger than love? The ability to endure the inevitable disenchantment which raises it’s head after you have known someone long enough. After the initial infatuation has faded, I can handle hating you, my love. For that I will remain by your side, loving you.