I was playing with filters this afternoon and liked this one because of the way it made my freckles pop.
Normally I wouldn’t notice my freckles, or care, but earlier today I’d sent a similar shot to my boyfriend and he’d texted back
‘I love your freckles.’
I never really think about my freckles, or even think of myself as particularly freckled; compared to most of one side of my extended family on, I’m really not! I don’t have many on my face; they’re mostly on my arms, especially the elbows. There’s some scattered over my knuckles and the backs of my hands, a lonely one on the side of my left tit.
Hearing him say that, though, made me notice them, like them, struck a flickering glow under my skin. Now when I look in the mirror or down at the backs of my hands and see the funny particular way my melatonin clumps it makes me not just think of him; it makes me feel his gaze on me — seeing me, noticing me in ways I don’t, can’t, myself.
I think that’s maybe what we bring into other people’s lives, friends or lovers alike: we notice things, we see each other through different filters; we hold back up to the object of our affection the things we love about them, the funny things, the lovely things, the strange and random particular things, the wonder of all their pieces.
The way their cheek quivers when they’re trying not to laugh.
The quick empathy of her listening.
His little finger, the lines across the knuckle, the way it taps restless against the table.
His love for early biplanes and the way it makes you visit new bookstore sections with stars in your eyes.
The way she glances across a room and finds your eye and glimmers.
The particular blocking of his shoulders and what it does to your pulse.
The way he could read a phone book aloud and make it a thing of laughter and human connection.
The weight of her tits in a tshirt.
How punchdrunk happy you get just tracing the line of the bridge of his nose with your eyes for ten minutes, twenty, for a fucking hour.
The ludicrous joy it gives you when their voice cracks on the low E, every time.
The way their sense of humour fits effortlessly with yours.
The soft dangerous promise of how he kisses you in public.
The noises she makes when she comes.
The fact they know the same obscure Agatha Christie plotlines you do.
The grounding warmth of her breath on your skin.
The way he makes you feel seen.