Still The One

Thirteen

I could stay with you forever, and never realize the time. ­– Bob Dylan

 

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Thirteen
Four years ago – February 14, 2014

I could feel the soft touch of someone stroking my hair, sending me the lightest, pleasant chills. Not excessively eager to greet the day just yet, I was slowly unlocking my eyes to see two entrancingly viridian ones staring back.

His russet, curly looks were wild and untamed – shamefully contrived by our jumbling entanglements from the previous night. His right cheek was smothered against the pillow while he laid on his side. He twirled a wisp of my livid hair between his thumb and forefinger. And he was perfect – the moment he saw my eyelids fluttering to awaken, a warm smile was stretching across his radiant face.

“Hm, what time is it?” I groggily asked, and resisted the urge to shut my eyes again. By the sound of the chirping birds resonating from the bedside window, it was likely around the time to be getting up. But I wanted to pretend for just a little longer.

Harry raspily mumbled, “Almost noon, doll.”

“Then it’s still too early,” I was whispering, pulling the covers over my bare torso. Under the blanket, I spotted a fresh lovebite in the middle of my chest.

Harry smiled a little. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

I silently nodded. And he proudly said, “I’ve tired my love out.”

I rolled my eyes and felt the spread of a new blush. But then it hit me – it was Valentine’s Day.

“Happy Valentine’s, Al,” he grinned and beat me to it. I watched his gentle actions with sleepy fascination. The tips of his fingers were feathering the surface of my skin, leaving a pleasant trail of goose bumps.

I replied, “Ditto.”

His perfect, crooked smile came into view before he was leaning over to kiss my forehead, then my nose, and lastly my lips.

“And what shall we do today?” I sighed, my hand somehow blindly found its way to his.

Clasping his large fingers to mine, he was stating, “Alice Faith Moore, I have already got it all planned out.” It always curiously amused me to hear him say my full name.

The covers underneath my bare skin, combined with the warmth that emanated from Harry’s body, was heavenly to the core. I could feel the light sheets shift with every breath he took, and I intently watched the rise and fall of his chest. His illuminating, polishing eyes were patiently staring into mine, causing the beat of my heart to pound just a bit faster. And again, I had wished I could paint or at least capture a decent picture to resemble even the slightest fraction of how beautiful he looked.

We arrived in Paris yesterday, and had managed to dash to our hotel suite; we had only wanted to have some immediate alone time. With Harry beside me, the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the room, and only the covers between us, I imagined that things couldn’t get any better than this.