Andrew stands motionless by the front door for at least five minutes. With his brown leather briefcase in hand, he finally hangs the matching brown hat on the coat rack by the door. Even with his brown raincoat on, he’s soaking from the unfamiliar Southern California rain. His wrinkle-free dark brown pants and brown cotton shirt are also wet. I sit on the couch and watch him head straight to the master bedroom to change without any sort of acknowledgment.

Andrew Nielsen is my live-in boyfriend and, technically speaking, my fiancé. He has proposed, but my ring finger remains bare. Returning from our bedroom, he is now dressed in his usual uniform: brown cords and a brown polo shirt. Sitting on our old, dumpy sofa, I reach out to welcome him, and he glances and stops me before I get near enough to touch him.

“I’m sorry. I’m still a little wet,” he abruptly instructs as if I were one of his students.

“Oh.” My hand instantly returns to the armrest. “How was your day?”

“It was a productive Sunday. They just added a new sociology class to my schedule so I needed to prepare for that,” he says without eye contact and walks away before the last sentence is finished.

Even after all these years, I find myself still attracted to Andrew. My fiancé is five-foot-eleven. He’s handsome. His sandy blond and slightly curled hair is cut short, his chestnut eyes are warm, and when he smiles, which is rare, his smile reveals dimples that can still make me weak. Folks have remarked a strong resemblance between him and the actor Simon Baker. His ultra-healthy eating habits prevent him from his tendency to be chubby. He had weighed an extra thirty pounds when I first met him in high school. Through the years, I’ve watched him struggle with his weight before being diagnosed with an eating disorder. After several years of yo-yo dieting, countless Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig meetings and therapy, Andrew is now a vegan and a yogi. Doing daily yoga has also helped his body remain lean.

When Andrew enters a room, people continue with their conversation. He’s not the type of man who stops a party. He’s an unassuming, quiet and reserved man. In all he does, he prefers noncomplicated things. He takes comfort in the simplicity of a daily routine. He gets up at five thirty in the morning, does his yoga in our living room, walks around the block, eats oatmeal with fresh berries for breakfast, drives a brown 2002 Subaru to and from work using side streets, and is home by six every night in time to devour his vegan meal as if it was his last. After dinner, he resumes work, typing away in his home office until he retires at ten thirty every night. The routine only changes on Wednesday nights. Date night. Sex night. He’s determined to have an uncomplicated life with me, with himself.

My eyes follow him as he reaches for his brown leather briefcase. As usual, he will head straight to the home office at the back of the house, remaining there until dinner.

How did two high school sweethearts become so distant?

The man typing away in his home office is the only man I’ve ever dated, kissed and had sex with. What began as a simple date at the tender age of fourteen turned into an almost sixteen-year union. And although we have been engaged for more than five years, I often wonder if marriage is in the cards for us. Looking back, maybe I should have known all along.

Andrew and I met a few months into my freshman year in high school.

It was a memorable day because he was the first guy to come up to me. Andrew awkwardly introduced himself and asked me to join him for lunch. He was so funny back then. We laughed the entire time we ate and had become fast friends, making plans for a first date the following weekend.

After dinner at a fast food restaurant, we went to see an action film, and midway through it, my date fell asleep slightly snoring. Although I had urged him to drop me off at the corner of my building, he walked me to the front door. It was that Saturday night that I had my first, sloppy teenage kiss. I often think about how Andrew and I were back then−teenagers so full of dreams, hope, and the new feeling of love. For years, we never wanted our time together to end. We would walk around the city for hours while holding hands and talk about everything and nothing. Every weekend was spent at the movies, or at the park where we would read books to each other. And if I wanted to attend a musical performance, Andrew would join me even though he only prefers Christmas songs. Every now and then, memories of the way we used to kiss for hours hit me because nothing was better than his lips against mine. Now, we’ve become strangers living under the same roof.

“Andrew … Andrew?” Trying to get his attention, I finally kiss him on the cheek as he sits in his tiny study. I scan his home office. Papers everywhere. Books neatly stacked next to an overfilled bookcase. His desktop computer remains unused and collecting dust in the corner of the room. His desk only holds a typewriter, two college-ruled notebooks, and a black-framed photo of us as teenagers, smiling at his high school graduation.

“Uh, yes, Lina. I’m sorry. I’ve been preoccupied with these papers. I need to review them by tomorrow.”

I pat his shoulder. “Dinner will be ready soon,” I say and walk out the door.

It’s another day and another Sunday night with Andrew. I head to the small yellow galley kitchen updated last when it was built in 1953. As I slowly unwrap the food purchased from Whole Foods a few hours ago, all I can think about is meat. Beef. Pork. Chicken. Although I am not a vegan, it’s difficult to eat meat and dairy products in front of Andrew. Who wants to hear, “That’s just going to kill you” or “How could you eat that?” when I’m about to bite into a juicy burger? I can’t remember the last time I ate meat in front of him.

I head to my master bathroom to freshen up. Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I assess my appearance. As usual, my shoulder-length light brown hair is in a messy bun. My face is devoid of any makeup. I should fix myself up. Opening one of the drawers, I reach for black mascara and apply it to my long lashes. This should help my green eyes stand out. Even though I have olive skin, I look a little pale. Dabbing a little blush to my cheeks and gloss on my full lips should help. My five-foot-two frame stares back at me. Even with the attached belt wrapped tightly around my waist, my size four dress is loose. I need more protein in my diet.

The spaghettini alla checca and field greens salad are arranged nicely on the dining table. Along with the meal, I bought fresh white peonies to add a sense of romance to our dinner together. I light a votive candle and dim the lights. After making sure our round table looks pretty, I seat myself and wait for him. I wonder if he’ll notice my appearance. Continuously glancing up at the round clock hanging above the banquet, I can’t help but notice he’s unusually late to dinner. Andrew’s mind is like clockwork. He’s always on time. Twenty minutes later, he finally joins me without an apology, completely clueless that I had been waiting this entire time.

Taking a bite of the pasta dish, he remarks without looking up, “It’s cold.”

“Andrew, if you had come to dinner twenty minutes ago, your pasta would be nice and warm.”

“What are you talking about? We always eat at six thirty. Every night, it’s always at six thirty.”

“Look at the time.”

Look at me, Andrew. I’ve made myself up for you.

My dinner companion turns around and notices that the clock reads 6:52 p.m. He mumbles, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been so preoccupied,” and picks up his dish and heads to the kitchen to heat it in the microwave. Although someone in my position would be angry or even sad about the whole situation, I’m just resigned. At least I know I look good tonight. I stare at the flavorless pasta in front of me, twirling it with a fork, and all I can think about is the Steak ‘n Shake place on 3^rd Street. The thought of a juicy burger whets my appetite. I sigh and pour myself a glass of Riesling while waiting for him to return to the table.

A few minutes later, Andrew is at the dining table, and as it has been for the past two years, we eat in silence. It’s not a comfortable silence but rather an awkward one. We’ve spent more than half our lives loving each other but have managed to become strangers. Our eyes no longer meet. The chestnut eyes I love are always staring at the food or into space. And when I get a chance to look into them, they always seem so vacant, so removed.

Conversations are virtually nonexistent. And when we do have one, it usually revolves around household routines. “The bathroom door needs a new knob.” “I need more quinoa” or “Curtains need cleaning.” It’s been a long time since Andrew has shared anything about his day with me. Moreover, he hasn’t asked about my day in what seems like months. Gone are the days when we used to chat endlessly during meals. Nights spent in each other’s arms seem so foreign. And although we are seated at the same table, sharing a vegan meal, the distance between us grows.

At times like this, I think of my parents and their love story. I often replay my father’s account of how he met my mother in my head. Bee Gees’ “Night Fever” played. Men, young and old, were waiting in line to enter the “It” club, where a seventies party was being held. They were dressed in their three-piece suits; the wide-legged trousers, their tucked in shirts with long, wide collars along with their matching vests. Women with feathered hairstyles wore jersey wrap dresses with high-heeled platform shoes. Very flamboyant. It was May 26. It was the day when my dad, Roman James, met and fell in love with my Brazilian mother, Mara del Campo. His best friend, Marcel, had convinced him to go on a double date. My father insisted that when he first laid eyes on my mother, everything around him had ceased to exist. He said life before my her had just been tolerable.

After a whirlwind romance, my parents married a month after their first dance to Barry White’s “You’re the First, The Last, My Everything.” Several years later, they were cruising back from Catalina Island when my mother started having labor pains. Less than thirty minutes after I was born and named Evangelina Darling James, my mother died of a hemorrhage. Thirteen years later, on the eve of my mother’s death, my father’s Beemer slid off the Pacific Coast Highway on his way to LAX, and I instantly became an orphan. My loving paternal grandparents immediately moved to New York City to take care of me.

A day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss my dad. His deep voice is often in the background when I need guidance. Of all the things he believed, the one I hold dear is “Love is the most important thing in the world.” Life without passion, without spontaneity, without someone to share it with is not a life worth living.

Such passion has haunted me all my life. Now that I’m with Andrew, the only love I have ever known, I simply stopped believing in passion. Not everyone is entitled to it. I comfort myself by believing I, at least, have someone who loves me and would always be with me. It may not be the “I’ll kill myself without you” kind of love, but it is, nevertheless, love.

After Andrew finishes one of his favorite meals, he stands up, bending over to kiss my cheek. “Lina, I’m sorry again for being late. I have a few more hours of work to finish. I love you,” he whispers before he returns to his study, typing away on his old typewriter until he slips into bed at ten thirty. Through the early night, the all-familiar sound can be heard from each room of the small, quiet house.

Tap. Tap. Tap.