Vulnerability and Exposure

I wanted to take her picture. Seeing her disarmed, her face relaxed, her eyes warm, made me want to freeze this moment in time. Her face is so good. She has delicate features and dark lashes, faint freckles dust her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. There’s a small beauty mark on her cheekbone, and she has perfect teeth. Her silver-green eyes squinch up when she laughs. I wanted to wake up tomorrow and be able to study her face again, even if she was at work and I was busy in my own world. She has the perfect balance of dark and light. She’s beautiful and handsome.

She hates photos. She doesn’t take selfies. She doesn’t like the camera in her face. She twitches when I tell her how badly I’d like to capture how she looks. I play with this edge.

“How much would you protest if I got my phone and took a picture of us?” It’s still too early for me to read how much of an invasion this is for her. I tread lightly as she hesitates to give me the answer I’m looking for. I kiss her and giggle “Poor Max,” I chide, as I kiss her cheek, and trail my kisses down her neck. “What if I promise to spoil you afterwards?” She smiles when I say this, and I know I’ve won. I cover her face in kisses, “Now that I know your currency I’m unstoppable,” I proclaim.

I grab my phone and snuggle up in the crook of her arm, flipping to the front camera and quickly snapping 3 times. I don’t look at the photos right away. I put the phone down and kiss her hard, thanking her for letting me be obnoxious, thanking her for giving me what I wanted. All is forgiven as I give her what she wanted; her face buried between my thighs (again, and again, and again.)

On the way home in the cab I look through the photos, in the first two she’s rigid, you can tell I’m imposing, but in the last one we’re both laughing and her face is radiant. I treasure it.