Beliefs

He thinks I'm beautiful.

I am never comfortable with this fact--listening to the praises, the litany of his likes, the way he compliments with sincerity, his willingness to buy me pretty things and to polish my toenails. I never let him buy me anything or polish my toenails. I always accept his gifts of candy and flowers uneasily, as I always feel so unworthy.

He praises my long fingers--the way they move when I speak, the softness of my skin, the long, natural nails--he doesn't point out the sundry scars from gardening. He likes my short hair; he tells me how much it suits me, and  how he loves the way the wisps fall around my face when he runs his fingers through it. He likes the way I smell when he hugs me--a warm, all-encompassing hug where the smell of flowers waft around him. He tells me that my eyes are the most beautiful he has ever seen--eyes that sparkle and reveal moods so readily. He laughs about my freckles--the way they dust my shoulders, the bridge of my nose, and arms. He loves the firmness of my thighs--the way the muscles feel when he rubs my leg in the car. He never mentions my breasts. Ever. He tells me that I'm wickedly funny and infinitely amusing. He buys me drinks and dinner and tells me to put my purse away when I offer to pay. He never looks at the other more attractive women when I'm out; he only has eyes for me.

He tells me that I'm beautiful every time he sees me. He believes it. He means it. Why can't I believe it?

I needed to hear from him after running into one of my exes at Lowe's on Saturday. I knew it was him from behind when I saw the gray hair and the tattoo on his calf. I noticed the pretty blonde he was with and ducked into the nearest aisle and sought sanctuary amongst the screws and door hinges. I was dressed in a T-shirt and my work shorts, devoid of makeup, and wearing my yard sneakers. I looked like a woman buying her supplies for a project that she was going to do herself. I would have preferred to look like a glamour queen--the type he always praised who doesn't have to lift a finger around the house other than to point to what needs to be done.

I remember going with him to a dinner dance while he was married; we were close friends, and although I liked him, I never acted on it. He wasn't happy and it showed, and it was a function where I needed a date. He was willing to accompany me as friends, so we went together. I wore my pearls and a midnight blue velvet dress with matching heels. He mentioned he was surprised that the dress was so long--with beadwork at the bodice, it didn't need to be short. He never said I looked pretty; I remember. It took me two hours to get ready--and I even had a manicure. I primped more for him than for me, of course. I guess I expected a compliment or two. He told me I looked "nice." He shouldn't have said anything, as nice is a flat word devoid of meaning.

We arrived at the party in time for dinner. Before entering the Blair Mill Inn he removed his wedding band and left it in the ashtray of my car. It seemed like such a natural act for him that I wondered how much practice he had. We had missed cocktail hour. However, he had enough time before dinner to notice one of the most conceited women in the party--a blonde who was quite heavyset but with a very pretty face. He asked me her name and told me how pretty she was. I rolled my eyes and downed my super-sized Amaretto and asked for another. We left after the first round of slow dances; it is quite disheartening to dance with someone when he's looking at another.

In our strange relationship that developed post-party his lack of praise yet omnipresent nit-picking took their toll on an already wounded psyche. He was separated from a Swan--a tall, thin blonde with long hair and light eyes. He dated me for my intelligence and personality, oh yeah, and for my breasts.  He often told me if he could if he could couple those features with his wife's looks he would have the perfect woman.

I think about him now and wonder, "You liked him why?" Like many men who admire me for my voluptous curves and quick wit, he focused on the parts instead of the whole.

He didn't think I was beautiful--just some bright girl with large breasts begging to be fondled, to be sucked, to slide his dick between. 

He didn't think I was beautiful..or even attractive.  Why do I believe him?