Bon Iver brings me a pork chop as an afternoon surprise. Bon Iver fluffs up the bed, even though I rolled out after him. Bon Iver fills my ‘I Love Books’ mug with dandelions.
He is damp and dirty from chores and cooking. (I haven’t left my writing table today.) He has lamb fluff and wood chips on his flannel. (I’m wearing the socks he knitted for me, and my fingernails are clean.)
'This is awfully nice,' I say, as he braids my hair.
'Baby, you deserve it,' Bon Iver says. 'You work so hard.'