He was from a different age; the radio age.
Stubborn to a fault. Adamant.
Perfectionist. Fiercely independent.
I couldn't count how many crisp white shirts and black slacks he had, neatly aligned and hanging from his closet by uniform grey hangers.
He wouldn't even let me make his cup of coffee.
I couldn't touch his desk. That was all him.
I couldn't season his food and I couldn't tell him the right time, apparently. He didn't believing in zeroing anything off. It should be down to the dot. If it was 11.37, it was 11.37, it wasn't 11.40.

And it pissed me off. Sure, I was from a different age, too. The iPad age. The singing and dancing in front of your phone's camera for millions of people to watch age. I was from a radically clumsy era.
It bothered him, I knew, sometimes when I'd leave long strands of hair on the bed after waking up.
Buying a "wrong" fabric conditioner accidentally. Leading us to smell of roses instead of salt and the sea for a month and a half. He waited until it was completely spent before getting the right one himself, after all.
He didn't like me wiping my nose on the back of my sweatshirt sleeves whenever I missed my family during holidays. So he'd begrudgingly get...