Dear Diary,

As I settled into my new house, admiring my newly made-over kitchen with its crisp white cabinets and snowy subway tile, it occurred to me that it would be nice to spend time in the living room, too. Since the tumultuous hurry-rush of moving and upgrading some essential items, I’ve basically drifted from the kitchen to my bedroom and ignored any stops in between.

So I set about arranging, then rearranging, and figuring out how to make a narrow box of space work for me and my ten thousand books.

“What would you recommend, for a projector?” I asked Lover one night. He bought one last year, and I know he researched it thoroughly. Unlike me–I’m more of a skim Amazon reviews and then One-Click kind of girl.

Lover launched into a thousand details, then caught himself and laughed quietly.

“Give me your price points and tell me what’s important to you,” he said.

“It shouldn’t cost more than my car, and I like it when the explosions are shiny and amazing,” I replied promptly. (Hey, a girl’s gotta have priorities.) 

He laughed again. “OK, that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

A week later, Lover asked me if I was ready for the projector purchase. Apparently there was a sale, blah blah stuff, and he would get it for me. Credit card magic then happened, and days later there was a space-age Epson projector thing sitting atop my bookcase.

As Lover plugged in cables and I activated my Roku account, we decided to test drive it. I put in my Netflix password and voila, there was my viewing history displayed on a giant screen in vivid color.

I never really thought, until that exact moment, how somewhat personal a person’s viewing history can be.

My Continue Watching list includes Person of Interest, Scream, The Clone Wars, Avengers Assemble, and The Returned. I had binge-watched Scream so quickly that I finished two seasons before I had even had a chance to tell him about the show. (I loved it, he added it to his  List.) 

My List revealed Sense8, Fringe, Justice League, Continuum, and Jessica Jones, as well as some of my guilty pleasures like Beauty and the Beast and a movie called The Core. (Terrible, terrible movie, but I just can’t seem to stop watching Aaron Eckhart.)

I suddenly felt like Lover was in my underwear drawer.

Like, it’s perfectly fine that he’s been in my panties while I’m wearing them, but he’s never been in my underwear drawer. There’s all kinds of things in there, like granny high rise briefs for that time of the month, solo ratty running socks waiting for a mate to be found, and sheer lace thongs I’m still working up the courage to wear one day. And maybe some other things I’m not ready to tell everyone on the Internet.

“I’m surprised that Netflix hasn’t recommended Black Mirror, based on your viewing history,” Lover mused, browsing through the categories. “What do you want to see, to check the explosion-factor?”

“Who’s that director that makes everything blow up?”

“Um, Michael Bay?”

“Yes! Him! Find something by him, please.”

In a moment, the screen was lit up by the bright orange crashing meteors of Armageddon. It looked spectacular.

“Oh, and I brought these,” Lover said, producing chocolate truffles with bourbon centers from a hidden pocket.  

“Ohhh,” I breathed, “yummy!”  

“Yeah, I took my parents out for dinner, and there was this candy shop….” he trailed off. “Well, I like chocolate with liquor, I thought you might, too.”

“I absolutely love it when you lick me, and chocolate is always lovely,” I quipped, grinning back at him.

Sitting side by side as we watched improbable explosions in space, I leaned against Lover thinking, So, is this a normal relationship?

Well, it’s normal enough for me.