“Il n’y a pas d’amour, il n’y a que des preuves d’amour*.” – Jean Cocteau
So I don’t know his precise motivations for making my coffee almost every morning. It may contain an element of pity. He may do it because it is good to have a functional vertical partner for parenting purposes. He may do it to hear the sigh I make when the first sip passes my lips. And he may just do it to avoid watching the pathetic bootstrap process in which I stand in front of the stove, all implements immediately to hand, and attempt to make my coffee without first having had a cup. All I know is that most days he arrives in the bedroom, coffee in hand, milk already added.
“Proof of love?” He offers me the mug.
A couple of days ago, though, he came down to see whether I was getting up. “Is there coffee?” I asked.
“Enh,” he said. “There were only whole beans. I don’t love you that much.”
* There is no love, there is only proof of love. I happen to disagree, but we find it a useful construct, nonetheless.