I’ve taken to looking over at her much more than I ever did—even when we had just started going together. Then I seemed to look at her all the time—her hair, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, the way she moved or sat still. I couldn’t stop looking at her, even when she wasn’t there. I would think about her. All the time. This sounds obsessive, but it really wasn’t. It never got in the way of my work. I never stopped eating. Or lost any sleep. I never spied on her or called her up just to check on where she was. What she was doing. I was never jealous of her friends or the men she knew before me. I never asked her to tell me about her old boyfriends or imagined any to compare myself unfavorably to. Everything was always in the now. My past, her past, didn’t really matter. It was as if we were invented just to be with each other.
There is a painting by Marc Chagall of a man and woman, a married couple, and instead of them holding one another or just standing side by side, the one is… Read more »