He takes better photographs than I do. He lines up the lens with his subject, considers light and shadows, white and black, skin tone and composition.
For the afternoon, I was his muse. He told me to turn or tilt, to look at him, to look away. The results of Sunday's photo shoot sit in our camera phones, set as Photo IDs and backgrounds.
We had spent the morning at brunch with my mom and dad, then killed the afternoon in a local flea market (one of the largest in the area) where we haggled over knock-off bags for me and a golf bag for him. Tired from all the walking and worn out from the wind, we headed home, our purchases resting in the back seat.
We retired immediately to the bedroom where, like a kid, I stripped my fake bag of the tissue paper surrounding it, preparing to fill it with my many necessities. He aimed his camera phone at me, snapping me in the late afternoon sunlight, capturing the surprise in my face when I looked up to find the tiny Sanyo lens in my face.
We spent the next hour with camera phones poised, taking shots of one another. We played with resolution and color filters, angles and distance. His photos always came out more crisp, more flattering. Mine were grainy and shaky, the product of my unsteady hand and my complete lack of an eye for pictures. He took the "sepia" tinted one above, where I chose to look at him while he fiddled with the position of the phone above our heads, committing our gaze to a lifetime in my phone.
This is what I love, days spent in the sheets, laughing and behaving like idiots. Times that remind me that we don't need excess stimuli to enjoy one another's company. We can be perfectly happy all afternoon with just one another; watching HGTV and Grey's Anatomy, stealing kisses and making each other laugh, it's perfect.
I remember when I was single, I thought that what I missed was someone to go out with. An arm to thread with my own, a built-in date for weddings and social affairs. But I was wrong. I didn't even realize I was missing this, the pure comfort of someone you trust, an easy afternoon of laughing with and at one another. Feeling like I may burst with joy and love and glee because I love this man so much, and I feel so lucky to have him.
Days like this are the ones I live for. They're the ones that shock me out of self-pity and self-doubt. The days I don't care about my weight or my makeup, days when I am just purely, blissfully happy.
How do you thank someone for a day like that?