Yesterday you met me at Le Pain Quotidien even though you hate it there. You ate an omelette and even said you liked it. You didn't sigh or heave your menu at me when you discovered they don't serve soda. You didn't roll your eyes when Jack refused the fancy soup, and ate only the slice of melon on the side of my tartine. When the waiter took 15 minutes to take our order, you didn't shout "You're effete and overpriced and I hate you!"
At my request you painted the entire downstairs of our house "apricot fluff" even when you knew it was in fact pink.
This is my favorite picture of you. I like it for two reasons. The first being that I think you look like the Marlboro Man (minus the cancer part). I also like it because I took it in NY. You hate NY. NYC did it's best to crush your tender soul. Still you go there with me on vacations. You eat sushi, and visit with friends, and take rides the subway. You never threaten to throw yourself off the Brooklyn bridge or throw poop at people who make a face when we tell them we live in LA.
You are a good man and I love you.
p.s. when you are done reading this, I need some help with this little problem I have in the downstairs bathroom. Won't take but a minute...