Kawthar is my wife. Now, I don't mean to get all in a huff and political, but that's how it is. I changed my last name, moved in with her, and am, in every fashion, for her. My name is Ahmad, and I lay each night with an angel.

Kawthar and I met online. Risky, we know, but it wasn't like we sought one another out in some single's site or on some horrible chat room. We met on some message board discussing one remarkably geeky thing or another, and we fell in love. Now, I also mean to be clear about love. I mean true love. The kind that sees you through my manic depression and her physical weakness. The kind of love that, genuinely, does conquer all.

I am eighteen years old, bordering on nineteen; she is twenty-three bordering on twenty-four. Our birthdays are the same week in September. Where I am toned from being an avid runner in school, she is voluptuous and plump like all beautiful Egyptian women. I like to think of that as complementary. Her hair is long and feminine. What distinguishes my Angel most is not her appearance, but her lack thereof in a certain respect.

My Angel cannot speak. When she was very young, an accident claimed her voice and left her communicating with instant messages and sticky notes. But, she doesn't ever need to. Her eyes tell me she loves me, her touch shows she cares ... her tongue reminds me that no one can come between us. Ever. I work, attend classes, and am up late into the night, reading, writing, and refining one skill or another, while she tends to domestic issues, finding the workforce hard for a Silent Angel to enter ... she tells me, with her writing and her sad eyes how useless she feels sometimes, but she is my Angel, and that is the greatest use she could be to me.

With that necessary background handled, today is Valentine's Day. A day where couples the world over celebrate love. Kawthar and I have been together for two years, and married for much of that, and would probably point out that we celebrate our love every day were it not a tradition we enjoy. Being slightly dorky, Kawthar and I, on the day before, follow Japanese custom and make chocolate for one another by hand. Honmei Chocolate, as it is called in Japan, signifies that the recipient is the 'only one' to the girl who offers it.

Valentine's day being Saturday, I get to spend it entirely with her. Of course, we likely will have trouble waking before noon. My Angel is physically tender and delicate, so sleeps often, and I go to sleep remarkably late. But from that moment, Valentine's Day will celebrate my Angel.

Kawthar awakens to see me, beside her as she enjoys to wake, and gently stroking her hair. Of course, I've been up for a while, made food for us to share. After a nice breakfast, we'll watch a show with some sort of cute lesbian porn implications; knowing us, it'll be sensual hardcore movies and will take a length of time. After a candlelight dinner with fine pasta and sake, we'll exchange our honmei chocolate and retreat to bed. It isn't about gifts for us, it's about love.

And love is the next item on the agenda. Note that for most of the point leading up to now, we will likely wear little if anything at all, as is customary for us in our little blissful world we call home. Anything we wear for the sake of temperature at this point will be a distant memory as I caress her, and trace over her neck with my finger, to remind her that even her 'imperfections' are perfect to me. Then, softly, I'll kiss her neck, on each side, before progressing down her chest. My Silent Angel has a quality of innocent beauty that I think only she can pull off. As my tongue dances over nipples stiffened, I know, by me and not the cold, I think on these things, and the many aspects of my wife I so dearly love.