Snort. Kerpluffen. Snort. Sneeeeee. Snort.

My husband’s nose makes many sounds, not every night. But many nights. Especially during the fall, when the air gets dryer, which makes all the gunk in a given nose all the more clumpy. Sometimes I ask him to roll on his side, clear his throat or blow his nose. I ask these things without judgement or malice and he responds almost always by complying, as if embarrassed.

When I first knew him I heard these sounds. They were not a surprise package granted me only after years of romantic interludes. They have always been with me during my sleep hours, sometimes a comfort, sometimes not. One famous trick his nose does is to say my name. That’s right—my actual name comes from a combo of his nose and mouth exhaling. Seeeeeerahhh. My name is Sara. It is hard to sleep through my name being repeated. However, I also realize that it is the only name I have ever heard his exhale say, and so it is kind of

cool.

He must have done this his entire life. He was 39 when I met him, and so when I realized he snored my name, it seemed a ‘sign,’ a beacon that told me we were indeed meant for one another. Lots of other signs appeared in the first years, also. We both drank horrible yet addictive instant coffee. We both had never had someone love us back as we had loved them. We both had a thing for live comedy, and it was in that setting I realized that he indeed laughed as loudly as I did—something I knew was a rare and valuable asset.

Yep, he was the one for me and still is. Going to bed angry is something we never do. Maybe it is because we seldom if ever quarrel. Instead, we get stoned every evening. We started that when I was transitioning off some medication and having excruciating nausea. He had given up drinking around the same time, and was ready for a new substance to help him unwind. It was the perfect solution. And it was also mighty hilarious. We laugh together more than any couple I know. Thank you, legalized cannabis.

But being stoned doesn’t in any way prevent the night sounds that he emits. Having sex does not halt the sounds, either. It is part of the fabric of our somewhat unconventional lives. What we cannot change, we must accept, some say.

I have for example learned to accept his hermit time, on Saturday nights when he builds a campfire in our yard and sits there, poking at it and intermittently staring at the Milky Way above, splayed out across the sky like a show meant just for him. Those nights I tend to hit the hay earlier. But I don’t fall asleep easily. I can’t sleep well or soundly without him next to me, often holding my hand or in some other way resting against me. I am the ying to his yang, the pea to his pod, the helter to his skelter. And he is mine.

So, this is why when my name comes out of him in the middle of the night, as it has for as long as he has had his nose, I know it is Kismet. And I also know that he can sleep through most sounds I make at night, such as my incessant teeth chawing and occasional lady-farting. This is a blessing to us both as I cannot stop either trait.

And, as of yet, I cannot fart his name and God help me, I have tried.