I’m entranced. There’s no other word for it.
The swell of those biceps. That smiling face, half-moon lips, innocent-cunning eyes, that I could look at and into for hours. And hours. That lazy-deep voice, with the funny almost-stilted phrasing that I can’t place. The thick curly hair that I sometimes catch my fingers in by mistake.
There are more cerebral aspects, if you could call them that. The easy way he shoots the balls down the pockets at pool – pow, bang, snap! The way he corners the car, as if he was born at the wheel. The way he sings along to the blues, and stops and blushes when he catches me looking at him. The funny little things he says, that leave me with no quick answer. The slow, easy sweetness of him.
And yet, he likes football and cricket, for chrissake. He thinks black lipstick is sexy (that indefinable look that says ‘roadkill’ like nothing else can!). He reads two books a year. This year one of them was mine. The other was probably on mud bricks. But hey.
It’s not like I haven’t got choices. I could choose the man whose intellectual interests match mine like pearls match a twinset, who is kind and emotionally mature, reads more books than I do and writes them too. That’d be the right thing to do, I guess. After all, I’m too old for this impulse-shopping shit. Right?
Oh but this other man, there’s no other word for him but beautiful. He shines. I can’t pass that up, not yet.