I love the things I hate about you. The way you hold your head askew when I tell you something you don’t want to hear. That irritated sigh, hardly distinguishable for someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do, when things don’t go according to plan. The nigh-on unbreakable emotional wall you create between yourself and anyone who dares to ask a personal question.
I love that you don’t give a fuck about what I think of you. That your allergy for alcohol seems to spit in the face of my fondness for fine Belgian beer and that you wear your stubbornness like a badge of honour. Not to mention the devious twinkle in your eye every time you come up with an inventive put-down for me.
I never could stand vegetarians – it’s just unnatural, let’s face it – but you get away with it. Easily. I loathe that you are forty but seem to possess the energy and youthfulness of someone much younger, trotting off to hip music festivals, doing yoga for hours on end and still casually looking drop-dead gorgeous every time I lay eyes on you, but I love you all the more for it.
I even love that you continually tease though you have no interest in me noticing you and never give a clue about the games you are playing with me.
I just hate that you don’t love me.
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