Reposting: Eye of the Beholder
A Christmas 2005 gift for alemara, who asked for something about Amy and Perry from The Ordinary Princess, which was rather odd to write, really, but fun.
Merry Christmas, dear.
Eye of the Beholder
He always woke up before she did. Mostly because he liked to watch her wake, to know that he was the first thing she saw. But also because the time before she woke was often the only part of the day he didn’t have to share with anyone, a time to think, or not think, as he chose.
He realized, one morning, while he was trying to see if he could move her hair out of her face without waking her up (sometimes he could, sometimes he couldn’t), that he had never once told her she was beautiful. And then he realized that he wasn’t at all certain that she was.
Morning light is flattering. It’s soft, and gentle, without the harshness of noon or long shadows of evening. And that morning, as the light came in at the eastern window, but before it woke her, he studied her. Straight hair, not fair enough to be gold nor dark enough to be ebony nor bright enough to be copper. Eyes that were closed, but that he knew were clear and shining, though not quite grey and not quite brown and not remotely blue. The pattern of freckles over her snub little nose and across her cheeks, a constellation more familiar to him than any in the heavens.
No, he decided, she was not beautiful. A great many things, yes, but beautiful was not among them. Charming, of course, and wise, and courageous and cheerful, the things she had been made, and for which he loved her. Thoughtful and kind, fair and sensible, the things she had made herself, and for which he loved her more. Above all, she was dear. Dear to him, and to their boys, dearer, indeed, than any metaphor could possible convey.
But not beautiful.
When he looked back at her, her eyes were open, her eyebrows were raised, and her smile was clearly amused (her smile, he decided, was beautiful). “Whatever are you thinking about so seriously this early in the morning?”
He leaned over to kiss her eyelids, so that she’d have to close her eyes again and he could watch her open them. “You,” he said, simply.
“Oh?” It was more breath on his neck than actual word.
“Yes.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, still studying her, saying nothing for a long moment. “Amy, what would you do if I told you you were beautiful?”
She laughed. “I’d laugh,” she said, a little unnecessarily. “Or I’d think you were up to something. Possibly both.”
“What if I told you you were charming? Or wise? Or . . . ?”
“Or cheerful or ordinary?” she suggested, still laughing. “I’d agree with you. Perry, whatever is going on in your head this morning?”
“And if I told you that you were dear and that I love you more than I ever thought possible?”
She stopped laughing and appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration, though her grey-brown eyes danced. “Well, I guess that would depend,” she said, finally.
“On what?” he asked, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“On how private a setting you chose,” she said. “But at the very least, I think I’d kiss you.”
“Is that so?” he asked, pulling her closer, moving from kissing her hand to kissing her neck. “My darling Amy, dearest and best beloved . . .”
She did rather more than kiss him.
Merry Christmas, dear.
Eye of the Beholder
He always woke up before she did. Mostly because he liked to watch her wake, to know that he was the first thing she saw. But also because the time before she woke was often the only part of the day he didn’t have to share with anyone, a time to think, or not think, as he chose.
He realized, one morning, while he was trying to see if he could move her hair out of her face without waking her up (sometimes he could, sometimes he couldn’t), that he had never once told her she was beautiful. And then he realized that he wasn’t at all certain that she was.
Morning light is flattering. It’s soft, and gentle, without the harshness of noon or long shadows of evening. And that morning, as the light came in at the eastern window, but before it woke her, he studied her. Straight hair, not fair enough to be gold nor dark enough to be ebony nor bright enough to be copper. Eyes that were closed, but that he knew were clear and shining, though not quite grey and not quite brown and not remotely blue. The pattern of freckles over her snub little nose and across her cheeks, a constellation more familiar to him than any in the heavens.
No, he decided, she was not beautiful. A great many things, yes, but beautiful was not among them. Charming, of course, and wise, and courageous and cheerful, the things she had been made, and for which he loved her. Thoughtful and kind, fair and sensible, the things she had made herself, and for which he loved her more. Above all, she was dear. Dear to him, and to their boys, dearer, indeed, than any metaphor could possible convey.
But not beautiful.
When he looked back at her, her eyes were open, her eyebrows were raised, and her smile was clearly amused (her smile, he decided, was beautiful). “Whatever are you thinking about so seriously this early in the morning?”
He leaned over to kiss her eyelids, so that she’d have to close her eyes again and he could watch her open them. “You,” he said, simply.
“Oh?” It was more breath on his neck than actual word.
“Yes.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, still studying her, saying nothing for a long moment. “Amy, what would you do if I told you you were beautiful?”
She laughed. “I’d laugh,” she said, a little unnecessarily. “Or I’d think you were up to something. Possibly both.”
“What if I told you you were charming? Or wise? Or . . . ?”
“Or cheerful or ordinary?” she suggested, still laughing. “I’d agree with you. Perry, whatever is going on in your head this morning?”
“And if I told you that you were dear and that I love you more than I ever thought possible?”
She stopped laughing and appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration, though her grey-brown eyes danced. “Well, I guess that would depend,” she said, finally.
“On what?” he asked, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“On how private a setting you chose,” she said. “But at the very least, I think I’d kiss you.”
“Is that so?” he asked, pulling her closer, moving from kissing her hand to kissing her neck. “My darling Amy, dearest and best beloved . . .”
She did rather more than kiss him.