I look at myself in the mirror, (the antique one with the fancy frame, the one the movers cracked slightly at knee-level, the one I had to have so badly that I won't give it up even now,) and I wonder why he still loves me. I've put him through physical pain and emotional, through denial and virtual torture - and yet, he's still him and he still loves me.
My eyes start at my hair, now almost always worn loose and curly around my face. He likes it best this way, I know, although he'd never complain if I changed it.
My face is next, usually free of makeup except for the clear, strawberry gloss I've used since I was fourteen. He tells everyone, with that sly, "I know something you don't" look on his face, that strawberry is his favorite flavor, which is a lie - he likes chocolate, but this is another "I love you". I smile whenever I hear him say it. I keep looking, closer, the way he sees me when he leans in for a kiss. I'm twenty-eight, (nearly twenty-nine, oh, my God,) but there are already fine lines around the corners of my mouth and eyes. I don't mind them at all, though - they're memories of each and every laugh we've shared. I wonder why there aren't more. I should look like my eighty-four-year-old Aunt Vi by now.
I keep scanning, down along the pale skin interrupted only by the short, dark blue towel wrapped around me. I smooth my hands down my sides, tracing the curves he knows better than anyone (anyone) after just five months of studying them. It's now that I notice my hands, and I hold them up for a better look. They're small, perfectly sized to fit his. My fingers are calloused from pencils, chalk, and paintbrushes; there's a smudge of Cadmium Yellow oil paint on the inside of my left ring finger that managed to get past my body wash. This makes me smile, too - it's been a while since my art followed me home like this. It's because of him.
Lifting my eyes back to my own face, I am still unsure. After more than five years, with a fiancé on my side and three (I think?) girlfriends on his, we both decided not to pretend anymore. I'm shocked he still wants me - if I were in his shoes, I wouldn't have been able to forgive like he did.
My thoughts are interrupted now as his reflection appears behind my own. His jade eyes sparkle as he wraps his long arms around my hips and drops a kiss on my shoulder.
"You smell amazing," he murmurs on my neck.
"Shower," is all I can manage. His hands are moving to the top of my towel.
"Mmm. I still love you, Pam."
I sigh, turning, leaving the reflection of insecure Pam behind. "I love you, Jim."
His kiss reminds me that the reasons don't matter. He loves me. He always has, and I believe that he always will. And that's all that counts.
Story Notes:
I don't know where this came from. It was written at 9am today while I was eating breakfast in my office. It's pretty much fluff, and I can only hope it makes some sense. Un-betaed, as usual.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended
Author's Chapter Notes:
This may be OOC, but I actually would like to think that I'm not alone in criticizing myself.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks to my daddy, the budding artist, for...well, he knows for what. <3
CallieJames is the author of 11 other stories.
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