“There’s cinnamon in there…sparkles and cinnamon.” M laughed.
I rolled over onto the New York Times Sunday edition spread out on the floor. The sun was streaming in and M was staring at me with a look of wonder.
“Your eyes are dusted with cinnamon and sparkles.”
“Really?” I fumbled for my glasses. I couldn’t see further than a foot without them. The room was dark compared to the sunlight stream I had been laying in.
I never liked my eyes. I always felt they were strange, weird, foreign. Growing up as the alien in a suburban neighborhood who had never seen anyone like me made me feel like a freak.
“Your eyes are beautiful.”
“Uh, no one’s ever told me that before.”
“Well they are.”
It was a hot summer and I was unemployed. I was filling my time with odd jobs off the books while collecting unemployment. I was also just embarking on a new journey as an actor. A world where knowing oneself, and truly becoming comfortable with myself was the key to success. And yet, I had still never really accepted my own looks. It was terrifying, and difficult. It was like I was doing everything to not be me. I had long hair down to my waist, I wore skull rings on all ten of my fingers, a black leather motorcycle jacket – to look fiercer and not weak. My music was all aggressive heavy metal.
But I wasn’t really this either. Inside I was all soft. I was curious, full of wonder, yearning to learn who I really was. I loved to laugh and even though my outside was like a porcupine with quills up, I was really desperate to be liked…or, gulp, loved.
“You are eyes are the best. Lay down in the sun again and let me look some more.” M giggled as she laid across my chest to gaze into my eyes. I could hardly see her as the sun was so bright. She kissed me in succession of gentle, soft lip prints in a line from my forehead down to my lips.
I thought to myself, “One day, I’m going to marry this girl.”
