Him & Her: A Love Story

Him:

Faces, I know your face better than my own. I always will. Your soft cheeks, sharp chin, and those eyes. Oh those eyes, emerald green pools that dance along the lines of the books you voraciously consume. That face, the way the light falls upon it in different seasons revealing your beauty in new and different ways.

We met on a Tuesday, it was dark but you were radiant. Actually, I heard you before I ever saw you. That laugh, un-self conscious, loud, vocipherous and full. It cut through the room. You feel joy with your entire being and you're not afraid to show it. Turning to see where that laugh came from changed my entire life.

Her:

That hair, it drives me mad. How does he make it fall like that. No matter what he does, it falls perfectly tousled, like some kind of magazine model. I hate it. I love it. I love him. He says we met on a Tuesday but he's liar. It was a Thursday. I wasn't radiant, I was drunk. And that laugh, it wasn't un-self conscious, it was terrified.

He's got a way with words. I try not to let them get to me, good or bad, but it's not easy. He talks... a lot. Don't tell him this, he will never let me forget it, he speaks beautifully. His voice, his words, the precision, the timber, his words move me in ways you don't talk about at parties. And then there is that smile. Give it a minute, he's going to piss you off. Then he smiles and you forget to be mad, until he leaves you are mad all over again.

Him:

Auburn hair. It smells of lavender and memories. Her scent is a time machine, I go back to the moment we met every time. She didn't merely look at me, she seared her gaze through me. She saw my soul and was skeptical. 'Is there a man in there?' She wondered. Only she could uncover him, bring him forward, give him life.

She will tell you she's not the nurturing kind. She's lying to you. You've never met anyone so kind. So elegantly selfless. No martyr is she, just willing to give of herself more than others. Generous to a grave fault, she gave me the shirt off her back the first night we met. If you know what I mean. I'm being coy with a purpose, she's not one for grand display.

Her:

Those words, his words, those damnable words. His way with words is my Achilles heel. Even more than that smile. It's not merely a way with words, it's a beauty to them. He speaks beautifully. He can't help himself with his pretty, pretty words from that pretty, pretty mouth, followed surreptitiously by that pretty, pretty smile.

I have to catch myself from getting lost on his lips. I know if he catches me, he wins, I am his, no longer my own. And I can't let him win. It's not in my nature. I'm not a prize to be won. And yet, if I don't steel myself against his charm, I become his more than my own. In truth, I would give myself to his words but making him work for it, drawing out those beautiful words ever longer, deepens my desire for him.

Him:

I am hers. I belong to those soft cheeks, that sharp chin, those emerald eyes, and auburn hair. I belong to that throaty, bellowing laugh, and that radiant essence that glows in the dark. I can't live without the way she says she loves me without saying anything at all. It's an effortless glance, a touch of the hand, and only occasionally, the words, a reassurance as much for herself as for me.

Her:

I love him. Beyond his words, his tousled hair, that winsome smile. He loves me. He wraps it up in flowery words, but it's not an evasion, it's an effort. He needs every word and, as mentioned, he uses them well. I am lost in his words, those beautiful, elegant phrases that say I love you in infinite variations.