vii – her beauty

  I’ve only seen Alyssa wear make-up once. I took her to a Dane Cook show in Orlando. I told her I bought the tickets for myself and a friend and my friend cancelled. I really bought them hoping she would go with me. And after a well-constructed lie to that son of a bitch boyfriend of hers, she did. 

Normally when she comes over to my apartment, her hair is pulled back and she is all natural. And simply stated, one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.

She never wears shoes. She always has shorts and a t-shirt on. Very low maintenance. Very casual. Very sexy.

HER: I know I look like **** today.

ME: You look amazing.

HER: Your lying.

ME: Alyssa, please darling, don’t call me a liar. Haven’t you ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Beauty is a matter of opinion. And my opinion is that you are amazingly beautiful.  

HER: Your lying.

  She likes when you run your fingers gently over her arm. A soft tickling caress. You know what I’m talking about. Index finger and thumb, lightly brushing the tender skin. I could do this for hours. I could do anything and everything for hours as long as it brought her pleasure. Happiness. Even the faintest hint of a smile.

But her beauty is so much more than just cosmetic. Yes, nature blessed her with perfect teeth and perfect skin and, as already discussed in an earlier chapter, an aroma that brings me to my knees. But beyond her sensational good looks and tight, flexible body, she is a wonderful human being. A terrific mother. A caring, good hearted, kind person.

Only, she isn’t aware of it.

He keeps her in check. If she’s fixing her hair he tells her she is ‘So full of herself.’ If she puts on make-up he asks her who the **** she is trying to impress. He wants her unattractive and at his mercy. He wants her to believe she isn’t beautiful. So he can continue to control her. Own her. Keep her thinking that she is lucky that someone, anyone, could ever want to lay down next to her at night. And that’s all he does. Lays down next to her. He doesn’t run his fingers up and down her arm. He doesn’t massage her feet. He doesn’t rub her back and nuzzle her neck and spread open mouthed kisses over her stomach.   

He never appreciates her beauty. He ignores it. He ignores her.

I took a picture of us with my phone. Poor quality for sure but I never miss an hour where I don’t pull it up and admire it.

She’s making a goofy face and sticking her tongue out toward my cheek. It’s impossible for her to look anything but magnificent. Me…****. I actually tried to look cool. I stuck out my chin and I sucked in my neck fat and I raised my eyebrows in my best James Dean. A look I’ve practiced in the bathroom mirror thousands of times in anticipation of this very picture. I really tried to look worthy.

I was afraid my head wouldn’t look right positioned next to hers. I was terrified I would look like one of those guys who doesn’t belong with the girl he is with. Like maybe he’s her brother and not her lover. Or worse yet, just a friend.

The guy she puts up with because she just needs someone to talk to. The neighbor who she will unintentionally lead on, (and on and on and on), and feed off of his compliments, only to discard him in the end when her boyfriend eventually figures all the **** out and forbids her from ever talking to him again.

Just a friend. I am just the passing friend aren’t I.

And then what?

Well, then I will weep and I will sway and I will lose weight and I will drink until the depression sinks me to the bottom. Or I’ll write a series of pathetic chapters about how much I miss even the smallest contact of our skin and I’ll post them to some public website. 

And sure enough, this is exactly what I wound up looking like in the picture. This doofus who doesn’t know his time in Heaven is limited. But it’s all I have, so I continue to live in it. I continue to live in her beauty.

My dear readers your faithful narrator is in a rainy state of affairs today. Stuck in the middle of an unsheltered valley as a series of pregnant gray clouds swell and burst above his ‘I’m just a friend’ head.

 He misses the most beautiful thing in his life. It’s been days and he wonders if he will ever smell her again. Ever run his fingers over her skin. Ever be able to tell her, when he is sober, just how much she really means to him.