the passing cloud


you know what i liked?

that every time we went out there'd come a moment--towards the beginning of the date, but not too early into it--when he'd sort of catch his breath, cock his head, look at me sideways and say, you know, you really are quite beautiful--as though he didn't know until right then--right at that moment.

and it happened every time.

every. single. time.

i was made new through his eyes each and every time.

it was as though he had no memory for what i looked like. or, as though, that thing--that illusive and disastrous and terribly important thing that is beauty--was secondary to everything else.

he'd say it not as a compliment, but as a discovery. not as a-means-to-an-end, just an observation.

and i so liked waiting for that discovery--watching for that discovery. a quiet and quick moment that mostly belonged to him. little more than a passing cloud, gone as quickly as it came.

i so liked knowing that that wasn't the thing that kept him coming back.