Forgive me for being a romantic utopian with this one. The truth of it is, I’ve been watching too many movies about failed/failing marriages on TV lately, and I need to believe that it’s not as bad as Hollywood makes it. Although I wrote this a few months ago, this is the reason I’ve just decided to post it.
Beauty did not come, as everyone always tried to make each other believe, from make-up and splendor. Beauty came from simplicity and nature, which happened to be exactly the two things that came to mind when he looked at his house, his life and his wife.
She read by the window, occasionally looking up and out of it at the beautiful country meadow that was their exaggerated “backyard.” She was so engrossed in the book that whenever she did look up from it, she was contemplating the events of it and analyzing every word, like the philosopher and discoverer she was.
On the weekends, you could hardly believe the life she led on the weekdays: always rushing about, having meetings with dozens of people, sketching designs and programming late into the night. During the weekends, she read, she stared, she blogged and devoted herself to loving life and loving her husband.
He remembered when she’d once told him: “I want to be beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that comes from good looks alone. I want to be the kind of beautiful that recognizes beauty where it is. I want to look up at the sky and never forget the beauty of the moon or how much I love it. I want to look at the ground and think that dirt is not dirty but natural in the place where it belongs. I want to be the kind of beautiful who is beautiful every day right from the minute I wake up, simply because I fall in love every day with the things I do. People are beautiful when they evidently love what they have always loved.”
He had fallen in love with her then, because she hadn’t realized she was already the exact kind of person she wanted to be. What was there left to achieve? Success? A full life? She had them both. Loads of friends, many of them almost as smart as she was – she’d never settle for anything less. He was, himself, more of an introvert, but her friends were her friends, and his life was just as busy. His weekends were just as relaxed. And every weekend, he thanked his stars that he’d made the right choice. How was he supposed to have survived, having married anybody else? There was nobody as perfect.
She closed the book and looked at him, looking at her.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey,” he responded.
She lay the book down and walked over to him. Putting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him, not wishing that she were anywhere else at this point in time. He was beautiful too, especially in the evidence that he loved dearly what he had always loved: herself.