Last summer David drove me to and from West Oakland BART when he didn't have to, making 30 minute round trips morning and evening so my commute would be shortened by 15 minutes and I wouldn't have to ride the train for too many stops while pregnant.
Every morning I woke first and got dressed before gently rousing him. He would be up quickly, mumbling assurances that he would drive me to the train in time, even though he always did. Sometimes I was awake early enough to make him toast and coffee, or summon the clarity of mind to at least grab him a banana, but for most of those summer months the pregnancy-induced nausea and workweek fatigue kept me in a hungry, tired fog. David never asked for the toast, coffee, or banana, though he thanked me when they were offered.
We drove a familiar route in silence: Stanford, Hollis, graffitied inlets behind Pet Club and the Office Depot plaza, Mandela Parkway. Usually we held hands. At some point I would lean over and kiss him on the cheek, and sometimes we had short, terse arguments that we brought to a close at the south entrance to the station. Every morning I took the escalator to the San Francisco platform and arrived in time to watch David drive away. He was always there at 6 in the evening to pick me up.
That was the happiest summer of my life. We did more besides commute -- we hiked in Point Reyes, barbecued in the yard with friends, visited our favorite redwood groves in Santa Cruz -- but I cherished those drives as David's quiet administrations of love.