On Intimacy

While I apply my make-up, he walks in, shirtless, and pees.  I keep picking eye shadow colors and try not to notice.  He washes his hands.  Then he starts checking himself out in the mirror.  He examines his hair line, his beard, makes note of his profile, and then, finally, lifts both arms.  He rummages through drawers.
And then, while I look on horrified, eye shadow brush paused in mid air, he starts trimming his armpit hair with an electric trimmer, the trimmings falling onto the bathroom counter, covering my contact case. 

Later, he asks if I'm ready to go.

"Yep."

"You going to leave your hair like that?"
"Yep."

"Okay, well, I love you even if you've stopped trying."

"Babe?  You peed in front of me and then trimmed your armpit hair.  I think that trumps leaving the house in a messy bun."

Reaching the point of total comfort around each other has perfectly coincided with my overwhelming desire for separate bathrooms.  So weird how those go together.