Someone is sitting across from me reading the paper and just for a moment, this morning I'm going to do a study in the here and now because sometimes a fresh outlook makes it all better. Sometimes in our rush to complicate things we can irrevocably change them forever and I don't want that.
I just want this:
Jacob is sitting sideways so he can cross one foot over the opposite knee. He's wearing navy plaid pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved waffle knit t shirt that is at least a size too small (not to call attention to his wall of a chest but because I shrunk it, stupid 100% cotton shirts). His big bare foot supports the middle of the newspaper, the rest is balanced on his thighs and he's holding it up with one hand and with the other he's sipping his coffee very quietly and then making a face every time he stops which means it's a little bitter. When he put his cup down he automatically rubs his left eyebrow and then frowns back at the head lines. He has cleared his throat three times since I started this entry, which means he's getting a cold.
He hasn't shaved since last Saturday, his beard has reached the soft fuzzy stage. It's so blonde it's a golden-white, matching his eyebrows and eyelashes. I can just see slivers of pale blue beneath his lashes as his pupils dart all around the page. His hair, just a little darker than his beard, is messed up like someone walked past him and rubbed it. It's completely flat but curls up around his ears and against his neck and he has a cowlick right in the front that sticks up enough to show his smooth, unlined forehead, pushing his long bangs off to one side. Oh, now he's sucking in his dimples, hollowing his cheeks, which tells me he has no idea I'm documenting his weekend ritual.
His hands are strong and smooth, short, ragged, clean fingernails in need of some attention, softly calloused fingertips, big hands, huge hands, he really has to search to find gloves and gear that fits those hands.
No jokes about big hands and big feet. Yes, the rumors are true. Happy? I am.
What are you doing, princess?
Oh, just working on a story, Jakey.
'Jakey' this morning? What's in that mug?
He laughs, I usually only call him Jakey when I'm slightly drunk.
Bitter coffee.
I watch his right eyebrow grow up. I wonder if he wonders if I can read his mind? He resumes scrolling through the sports section now, telling me which of our favorite teams are doing well and which are not. He makes a few comments about coaches needing to shake up their players.
Now he stands up, folds the paper and offers it to me. He does this every Saturday and I have declined every Saturday but he still offers. And then he bends down to kiss my cheek and-
..ha. I'm busted.
Have a nice weekend!
