“Have I told you how happy you make me?” I whispered it into his mouth right in the middle of a kiss. The lights were off and we were ready for sleep, not quite willingly succumbing to the promise of Monday morning.
“No,” he whispered back. I could feel his smile against my lips. “You haven’t. Tell me.”
Our lips met in a kiss again. I was buying time. I’d set myself up for the demand to tell him, but I hadn’t thought it through. “Very happy,” I said, then laughed.
Although I suppose the question Have I told you how happy you make me? is somewhat rhetorical, I was silently kicking myself for not having a better answer ready.
Very Happy? That’s it? Come on, Laurie. Words are your watercolors. Paint, I thought. But I didn’t paint. I didn’t even wet my brush. I just stuck my finger into cheap, gooey acrylic paint and left my thumbprint on an otherwise bare canvas. Very happy falls painfully short of how he makes me feel. Those two words aren’t nearly enough to communicate the happiness he induces.
Very happy doesn’t describe the perpetual smile I’ve been carrying around. The real smile, not one of the false variety – the one I employ for photographs and problem customers. The real one: The one that encompasses my face and forces my top lip to disappear. The one that reveals all of my teeth; that I can feel around my eyes. And all he has to do is be there.
Very happy doesn’t include the buzz I have around him; the bundle of butterflies in my belly when his hand takes mine. It doesn’t describe the rush of blood in my face when I catch him looking at me for no reason; the dizzy feeling I can get just feeling his lips on my shoulder, his hand on my back. It doesn’t explain the feeling that rolls through me when I hear his voice.
Very happy doesn’t demonstrate how much I enjoy just looking at him. I can’t stop taking him in – the arch of his nose, the strength of his jaw, his wide smile, his kind eyes. It doesn’t illustrate my constant desire to see him. I want to spend every free moment, every free breath on him; Even if we do nothing but lie around and watch TV, I’m satisfied. As long as I can feel him next to me, feel his hands on me, I’m happy.
Very happy doesn’t convey how content I am when we’re together; the way I know he’s not just in the same room with me – He’s present. Nor does it convey how beautiful I feel in his eyes, how wonderful I feel in his embrace, how valued I feel in his company.
But very happy was all I came up with. And he smiled at my laughter. “Well, good,” he said. “I’m glad.”
I nodded. I’m not just glad he affects me so. I’m very happy.