Beautifully Different

We were always different.

Both of us. In our own way.

We were like puzzle pieces. Cut up and misshapen in every way, but fit perfectly when together.

I come from the rough hoods of the United States capital. He was born from the modern-day bourgeoisie of Paris.

He had blond, wild, religiously untamed hair. His eyes changed from different shades of blue and green. I remember mentioning how his eyes would go to the deepest green when he was angry and the brightest blue when he was excited.

I, on the other hand, have chocolate skin and eyes to match. He always said, "there's a flame in your eye," when I became passionate or angry.

The criticism we had to endure in high school when we started dating was atrocious.

As one who stood for civil rights, #BlackLivesMatter, and then some. As one who always had something to say about racism in our school. The first to make the white kids uncomfortable.

My reputation was besmirched. Constantly, laughed at by whites and equally scoffed at by blacks.

Yet I stayed with him either way.

His aristocratic family hated me; thought I was a "temporary project," as his grandmother so kindly put it. He was the black sheep of the family, and I didn't make it any better.

Yet he stayed with me.

My mother tried to be kind to him. It was going well at first... until he did something her daughters couldn't do. He challenged her views.

After that, they clashed like two bullets coming from opposite directions going at the same speed.

My mother tried to tell me things she noticed about him behind his back. I heard but didn't listen.

Yet over time, I saw what she was saying.

The first time was when I snuck upon him in his kitchen while he was making a snack for him and his baby sister. He was casually dancing to a song on the radio that was playing on the shelf.

The way he rolled his hips and arched his back as he danced was surely more flexible than most men.

Down the line, I realized his hand gestures were feminine. His responses to certain situations were bitchy. Not "bratty," bitchy, but, "I-got-enough-to-destroy-your-life-and-build-it-up-again," bitchy.

And I fucking loved it.

Attracted to it, even.

Ask anyone and they'll tell you that I'm not the most feminine of them all. Pretty: sure; thick: damn right; girly: eh.

The things most girls I knew were attracted to had no interest to me whatsoever.

Over the years, I've dolled myself up a bit; however, you can almost guarantee to see me in baggy jeans, Timbaland's, hoodie, and headphones. He never hated it.

"It's what drew me to you."

One day, he asked me why I wore what I wore out of curiosity.

"To keep fuckers from staring at my ass--- bothering me and shit," I spoke with agitation--- not at the question! But at the memories that came with the answer.

He snorted, the way I oh-so-eloquently put things tended to humor him. My curiosity was now stroked, and the question I wondering for a while-- I asked. I didn't mean to embarrass him, but I guess that was inevitable.

With his head in my lap, he told me why.

Disgusting things that I would never repeat-- not even on paper.

It's not my business to tell.

Yet he told me everything he suffered from it; the consequences for someone else's perverted actions.

He put it simply, "there's no way to go through hell without coming out covered in soot."

"Are you upset?" He looked up at me, wide-eyed and hopeful.

I ran my hand down his cheek, "Never."

He snuggled his head back in my lap.

There was a beat of silence.

"Thank you," I said, catching his attention.

He looked up at me again, eyebrows furrowed.

"For what?" He asked in confusion.

I smiled warmly. I leaned down and kissed his forehead, causing a blush to rise on his face.

"For trusting me enough to tell me that," I rested my forehead on his. He took my hand in his and kissed it.

I cupped his cheek and kissed him.