Why the Byronic Honey is a Byronic Honey
Byronic Hero: He defies authority and conventional morality, and becomes paradoxically ennobled by his peculiar rejection of virtue;
A couple of days ago, one of the BH's teammates mentioned that they wanted to see how sweet the BH is to me, and at which point I gave them my usual spiel about how he does the laundry and mends our clothes. It was met with the usual laughter, and I guess they do find it hard to believe that yes, the BH, for all his Byronic tendencies, does the laundry and mends our clothes.
I think it is indeed hard to imagine, for someone who doesn't know him as intimately as I do, that behind that wall of defiance, cynicism, and caustic humor, a sweet guy exists. Yes, sweet enough to do the laundry and mend our clothes. There was even a time when I referred to our washing machine as "panlalake," mainly because he was in-charge of the laundry. I do most of the laundry these days but he still helps out in hanging them. And since I never really learned how to sew - my siblings and I are experts on the use of clear/masking/electrical tapes and staplers to 'mend' our clothes - the BH is still the master of torn sleeves and missing buttons. I simply hand him a needle and some thread, and our clothes are good as new. (Well not really, but you get the idea.)
He may scoff at other men's romantic overtures but he can also be quite the romantic, although of course not in a conventional way. He doesn't give me flowers and he usually eats the chocolates, but one time, he placed a copy of The Love of My Buhay in my planner (which I didn't discover until several days later), with the note:"We've been together so long that it's hard to imagine that there ever was a time that we weren't. And it has been good. My life has become so much better with you and T." Now that's something some people couldn't imagine him doing.
Some weekends he'd let me sleep, and by the time I'd wake up, there'd be coffee and breakfast ready. And too often, whenever I want to buy something for myself, he ends up getting them for me without my knowledge, or he insists on paying for my purchases at the counter. Oh, and did I mention that for more than five years, he would walk three blocks every single workday, rain or shine, just so we could have lunch together? (His 'daily exercise' ended a week ago, when their department moved to the same building as our department.)
Night-time giggles. Psychotic connections. Random kisses. Small things that mean so much. Reading my mind. Anticipating my needs. Supporting my decisions. At the end of the day, these are the things that matter. Sure, he gets his horrible moods. But I could make him smile. And laugh. And feel good again. Because he lets me.
And he's sweet that way.
My Byronic Honey.