The most powerful words are the words that are not said. The most expressive gestures are those that are often overlooked; the motions that seem to be routine . . . the things that are done without thought. Her eyes say it all. It's easy to get lost in her chocolate brown eyes. I've been rendered speechless by them more than once. It's the simple things that I have come to appreciate in the last few years.
I watch her chest slowly rise and fall. She's dreaming. Whenever she dreams the corners of her mouth gently cure upward revealing a small smile. I wonder what she is dreaming about. Her curls splay out against the pillowcase. Her skin is a milky white against the darkness of the night and the dim illumination of the moon. For a few moments everything is at peace; the world has stopped . . . holding its breath for one glorious second as if to preserve this moment for an eternity.
Four years in the making. She would laugh at my jokes. She once told me that I was funny. No one had ever said that to me before. She is one of the only people that I know I can count on no matter what the circumstances are. She's a fighter . . . she's passionate about everything she does. She puts her full concentration into the task at hand. The gentle wrinkling of her forehead; the air of intensity that surrounds her effort . . . it's something she owns. It is unlike so many people I know. It makes her unique among us.
She's been there for my worst moments. Alternately, she's been there for my best moments. No one at work knows about how we go for breakfast every morning. No one knows that we have been living together for three months. She doesn't want anyone to know. She says what we have now is perfect . . . it's comfortable. She's right. From the way she laughs to the way she fits in my arms . . . it is comfortable. I've never felt this way about anyone else. For so long, I wasn't even comfortable with myself.
The days we have together are the most special. Vacation days have always been few and far between. She's begun to ask for more time off. I know people have seen the change. They attribute it to rehabilitation . . . she is trying to recover from addiction. She is trying to stop washing her memories and fears away with alcohol. She's been fighting this for years. There is so much pent up rage. Rage at a boyfriend that raped her. Rage at her mentor for turning her affections away. Rage directed at her parents that failed to protect her. An unbridled fear of being intimate. She asks what she did to deserve this. I tell her that some things we are not meant to control.
It took a year to begin to break down those walls; a year to being to rehabilitate her. I drop her off at AA meetings. She's afraid to drive herself; she's afraid that she might not stay at the meeting. She is terrified of sharing. She says there are some secrets that are too black to be talked about in the daylight. I understand . . . I know the burden that those secrets carry. All I can give her is my patience.
I am transfixed by her figure. I've spent many sleepless nights just observing the contours of her cheeks . . . the line of her jaw. I run my fingers along her profile trying to memorize all the little curves and angles. This is time well spent. I wouldn't trade these sleepless hours for anything else.
"Nicky, I can feel you watching me. Insomnia?" Sara asks as she rolls over in bed . . . her silhouette is softened in the moonlight.
"Insomnia," I whisper as I lean over to kiss her forehead. She drifts back into sleep with a smile on her face . . . her body tucked against mine. It's a moment that I want to preserve in a snowglobe.
