A man I once knew, once loved. Took attentive care of me, fed me, clothed me, coddled me, loved me. A hardy man, of twenty-five years of life. He would touch me, run his fingers through my locks, rub my flushed face when I cried, allowed me to lay my weary head upon his tanned chest when the devil's angels filled my imagination with horror, and the list extends...
I adored his chest. It cradled me me, rising upward, then falling like the rain, which pitter-pattered outside. The beating of his amiable heart synchronized with mine. I had always felt that, he adored me as well. He filled my youthful days with praise, never taking his attention off of me. But with that, I noticed he looked down on me as well, as if he was worried for me. Oh how I detested his pity for me! I had no right for laments; my life as it shows even now cannot be any more convivial. Why did he pity me? Was I pitiful?
I grew, but he the same. My life had expanded to thirteen years, but still twenty-five was he. His pity for me remained, however reduced. My tribulations had returned to my dreams, and I feared them more than ever. Like a child, I came to him in the night.
I grew, and my mind had maturated as well. No longer were the blissful nights listening to the delicate beatings of his heart, and feeling his temperate body rising and falling underneath mine sinless. My mind, corrupted by my environment, was cursed with vivid images of pleasure. I had always accounted him as handsome, and dreamy, and now my maturing body ached for him. The image of him making passionate love to me kept me occupied.
Always afraid, I have been, of touching myself in a lustful manner, but the arousing images of his hold, his beautifully crafted hands fondling me, oh how I would have loved to have been underneath him, withering in agony, adoring him. It was at that moment, when I realized-I wasn't his little girl any more.
He always had a mischievous glance in his eyes, as if he knew a joke that he wouldn't tell anyone else. Those eyes met mine one day, and bent down to my level.
"Someday, you will be my wife."
His speech was tender, warm toned, and endearing. My face, burning crimson, flushed with embarrassment and modesty, smiled. He took my façade as a 'yes' and tenderly kissed my rosy cheeks, and licked the salty tears leisurely dripping from my eyes, kissing them. His lips were softer than his voice. His laughter was sweet to my ears, as I heard him chuckle at me blushing.
"You're face is flushed...it's really adorable."
Feeling his thumb caress my cheeks, which have not cooled down, gave me goosebumps. He stood up, and casually roamed towards our marvelously carved wooden table. I remember him telling me that one of his great-grandfathers had brought it back from Portugal. On top of the masterpiece was a vase of carnations. Erratically, yet delicately, he chose the efflorescence in which he accounted as, 'the perfect one.' With a gracious smile on his face, he came back to me, positioning the lovely flower behind my ear. He then placed his hands on my shoulders, admiring what he had just done.
"Como é belo! Muito lindo!"
I did not know what that had meant. I knew he spoke Portuguese though. I assumed that it was something along the lines of, "You're so cute!" because that is what he had always said to me. He had always spoke kind words when taking to me. Why I do not know. I acted very callous to him, for a long period of time. When my parents had departed, I was to live in an orphanage. I would catch him visiting the small children, for he loved children. I was a very apprehensive youth, but he still managed to find me. He must have took a liking to me, for he decided, despite his young age of twenty-five years, that he would be the one to care for me.
It took like what seemed forever for me to fully trust him. No criminal record was shown when background checks were completed, but it was going to take a lot more than that to prove that he wasn't deviant. I was too acerbic toward him. I can't recall all of the nasty and bitter words that came out of my mouth that were meant for him. But he still showed me love-I envied him.
His face was in awe, as he gazed upon mine. I heard him breathe out words in his language, something I couldn't understand. Closing his luscious, marveled eyes, that were as brown as Italian coffee, he nudged his forehead against mine, smiling quietly.
"You're like my blushing bride."
His words made me so happy. I knew that I loved him, cherished his presence in my life, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the life I was living was just an idea, a scenario...a simulation.
