He doesn’t pay me compliments as often as I like. He sometimes tells me that I’m sexy, but it sounds hollow and feels empty. He rarely tells me that I’m beautiful, and when he does, it’s generic–the kind of thing that could apply to any girl. Sometimes it hurts my feelings, as I’d like to think I’m not just any girl. At times, I suspect he doesn’t really see me. Sure, he sees some in-his-head construction of dominance, femininity, and assorted characteristics he finds attractive, but sometimes I wonder if he really sees me.
But then, on rare occasions, there are moments when I feel like he does–moments when he seems to look at me, consider me, and I believe he might really see me.
Last night, I had just stepped out of the shower and had a towel wrapped around me. My hair was still dripping and clung to my face. It was fucking freezing in the house and I walked from the shower to the bedroom to check the thermostat.
I had to stand on my tiptoes to see the controls in the low light. In the too-cool air, when I reached up to adjust the A/C, I felt the edge of the towel rise and skim the bottom of my ass. Without thinking, I smoothed the towel down and tried to cover myself with my hand.
I tapped the buttons on the thermostat but the A/C didn’t shut off and I stretched up and fiddled with the thing for a few moments. J sat on bed behind me, silent. I was actually a little annoyed that he didn’t get up to help me figure it out.
And then it came out of nowhere, “God… You’re really beautiful.”
“What?” I half laughed to the wall, my back still to him, poking at the controls.
“I said you’re really beautiful.”
I turned to look at him and read sincerity on his face, accompanied an unblinking stare and the dumbest goofy smile. In that moment, at that time, in that place, he really found me beautiful. He meant it and I believed him.