His name was Marcel Jean-Pierre Chauvin. And she loved him to pieces.
Not be surprised: everybody did. He was the kind of person that stole every heart, got every preference and made every prize. His family was all waterfalls about him: he was the favorite nephew, the favorite cousin, the favorite grandson, the favorite everything. His classmates picked him as best friend as soon as they met him. He was a teacher’s pet in every single grade no matter how naughty he was. There wasn’t a girl in the world that didn’t have a crush on him. He was the most wanted guy in the world. And she loved him to pieces!
She loved him from the shadows while he didn't even notice she was there. She loved him in silence while she couldn't bring herself to speak to him. She loved him from afar while she prayed and wished with all her might that he would approach her.
People don't believe in love at first sight, but it happens. It had never happened to her either until she took just one glance and fell under his spell. Just turn your head to shake hands with a stranger and as your eyes meet your entire life turns over.
But how could anyone resist those lovely eyes, so perfectly turquoise that you could never tell if they were blue or green, so intense that you might even believe they'd glow in the dark (and who wouldn't love to be in the dark with him!), so full of sparkle and life, so cheerful, so sharp, so mesmerizing.
And talk about his hair! Shining in the sun just inviting you to run your fingers through its jet black bangs that fell around his eyes and ears, over his dark heavy eyebrows, that made his eyes stand out even more. Not to mention his smile! She could feel the floor shake whenever he displayed it -which was quite often for he was always merry as Santa Claus -it practically "pinged" like those hero characters in cartoon films.
And, yeah, as if that wasn't enough torture, he had a rippling body too. Not the type that's a grotesque mass of muscles, but rather the discretely athletic kind, with medium but very shaped muscles that weren't overwhelming as to make you run, but developed enough to give the impression of strength, confidence and security. You'd think he posed for a Phydias statue. And, unfortunately, she met him at the beach, so she had quite a view of that gorgeous physique and tanned skin -that just made you ache to cuddle as close to it as possible.
Unfortunately too, she had pretty little to display in her own bathing suit. And even more unfortunate, there were others that did have quite a bit to be proud of and, yeah, you guessed it: they liked Marcel too.
So, she had to stay apart and sulk over that diet she was always promising to start while she watched how others showed off their flat bellies and long firm legs in front and all around him. And she had to gnash her teeth with repressed anger while she saw him smile at them and chat with them all day, visibly delighted with their company while he didn't even realize she existed.
Because, yep, Marcel was a ladies man! Nothing like a stunning set of curves to get him going. Nothing like a pair of red wet lips to lift his spirits. Nothing like a bit of flirting and a heavy make-out to make his day. Oh, yeah, the guy loved women like nothing else. Just keep him away from female company a few days and he'll be climbing up the walls and begging for mercy.
It's funny that this detail added to his charm. He was a king in the art of seduction. Especially because he could change the style to adapt to whatever his date wanted from him. If he was with a party girl he would take her dancing the whole night. He was a master of dance: from tap to salsa, from break dance to tango, you name it, he knows it. On the dance floor he was a show-stopper. One really had to be on her toes to follow him.
Now, if the girl was a posh type he would be sophisticated and charming. He would arrange a glamorous dinner for two in a fancy place, with music, candles, red roses and fiendishly expensive champagne. It was easy for him, since he was as rich as could be. His father owned one of the biggest companies in Paris, one of those that only move money and make it by heaps. But believe it or not, that never got to his head. He was so simple and modest that you wouldn't guess he owned a fortune -until he took you out and you saw his car, and the way he spent on the date without counting cents.
For dreamer girls he would be sweet and romantic. Picture an intimate picnic on the carpet, by the fireplace, cuddling in front of a love video, or playing your favorite song for you. To top it all, he played the piano. And very well. And if he started to sing you'd grovel on the floor like Sinatra's fans fainted over him. And he loved it too: music was one of his biggest passions. Which is why his favorite films were the old musicals.
Now when the girlfriend was the dynamic type he would turn on his sporty self and take her swimming, or skating or bowling. But don't go bowling with him unless you're playing just for the fun of it, because you're always going to lose. Sure thing. With him everything that wasn't strike was a spare, but he would never leave one single pine standing up. And when it came to sporty plans one could always count on him, for the guy had more energy than anyone could dream of and a health to make you jealous. Or if his sporty date would rather do something passive and lazy they'd get a big bowl of popcorn and watch a soccer match. The only game he didn't practice, ironically, was the one that thrilled him most.
If the girl was shy he would be Mr. Polite, keep his distance, settle for holding hands, treat her like a queen without ever pushing her into anything and even asked before he kissed her. On the contrary if she was more the vampy wild woman he turned into the most firy hot lover and swept her off her feet for a really passionate interlude.
Speaking about lover skills, that was his specialty. Maybe because he had had a looooot of practice, or maybe because he liked it so much, or because his pride demanded that he'd be the best, or simply an inborn talent, -whatever the reason, he was the ultimate experience in the physical department.
You know there are guys that seem clueless about the art of loving. They can't wait, they're too direct, or too rough, or too cold, or try too hard, or simply have no idea how they're supposed to act. There are guys out there that don't know the difference between passion and attack. They'd push a mile-long tongue straight down your throat, suck on your mouth like a vacuum, nip your lips when they pretend to nibble, freak you with a head-on collision and lick like a slobbery puppy. They'd stroke your skin with sandpaper hands and leave a blue-black mark wherever they venture to grab.
Some guys would grope beneath your clothes with such enthusiasm and such lack of aim that you can only think: "What's he looking for there? There's nothing there!" Some will make such a hasty tour of your body you don't even have time to realize what he touched or if you felt it. Some go to the point with such a rush that you end up dazed and shocked like "Was something supposed to happen?" and then marvel at the ignorance of their own total "un-talent" when you see them so proud after a lost battle, happy with their imaginary victory.
Not to mention some are rude enough to throw a real tantrum if you don't happen to be in the mood and demand and order your participation with such authority that you wonder when you signed a contract to perform.
Now on that line, Marcel was a natural genius. He knew exactly what a woman needed. He would always consider your mood and respect your lack of it. He was not the type that gets angry when you say "no". If the freaky word ever hits him he'll be even more charming and mellow and try all his best to tempt you -not convince you. While other guys would try to make you do it, he'd try to make you want it.
And if he succeeded it was an art for him to please you. He would always mind the setting to prepare you for a love scene, with the proper background, introduction, prologue. He would pay special attention to lights, sounds, colors, place, time, props, moves so strategically arranged you'd think he even rehearsed them.
And he knew how to make you feel truly desired. Being with him was like being a crystal handled by a very careful and skilled artist. He would hold your hand like it was made of gold. He would stroke your hair like the wind touches a grass leaf, he would caress your body like a silk scarf running down your skin and knew the exact amount of pressure to apply to your lips to make a soft but firm contact, and the right length of time each move should last before he'd draw away or change it. He knew how to start slow and then gradually grow to passion, how to surprise you without being too sudden, how to figure you out by paying careful attention to every reaction, and glance, so, in a minimal time of experimentation, he would know exactly how to shake your ground. And you'd grovel in disbelief as he traced all the right routes at the right times, in the right speed, so perfectly figured out as if you had trained him yourself. "How did he know?... How could he possibly know?"
Somehow he knew. And then you'd see him so absorbed, concentrated, fascinated with you, that you couldn't help feeling like the most delicious thing ever born in this planet.
Not at all like those guys that run in such a hurry that they don't take a moment to even see you, or feel you, let alone relish you: they just jump to the final part so eager to get it over with, you don't think they even noticed what you look like, and surely they don't even care -they don't care to explore and discover you, they don't care what you're like, they don't care what you like (or if), they don't care to connect. They might even get annoyed if you want a longer or more detailed prelude, or get bored and quit if you keep them waiting too long, so they just take you, fast, direct, cold, like a sex toy, an instrument, a prop, a tool, something they use to get off and throw away, ignoring the part that they consider "ornament" and useless caprice (aka romance).
And if they ever do display any tender demonstration they seem so uninterested and hurried that you know they're just doing it because you imposed that condition, like the mother that forces the child to eat the vegetables (he hates) in order to get desert, and the child eats all, but fast and annoyed, only thinking of the candies that will come next and never give proper credit to the salad, no matter how good it might be, or how carefully you prepared it. In that line, you could call Marcel a "vegetarian". As much as he might enjoy the "desert" he wouldn't miss the "salad" for the world, and he would savor every part of it with such genuine delight that it was almost comical.
Just as there are men that can make you feel like a piece of meat, there are others that make you feel like a cream cake. And that can be quite a treat for your pride. Seeing him so much in your power can be the biggest turn on. This was his secret weapon: he would melt over you in such way that you'd end up melting over him.
Of course, he expected one to appreciate his efforts so you had to be psyched and show it. He needed lots of flattering, for every little thing, even if it was just picking the right thing for your birthday, or guessing the exact seats you wanted at the theater, you had to call him a genius and he'd be the happiest man.
Okay, so even he wasn't perfect. As huge as his talents were, his ego was ten times bigger. You'd think his ego would have to live out in space cuz it wouldn't fit into this planet. If there was ever a conceited guy that was him! When it came to modesty he hardly knew how to spell it.
Even Marcel had his defects. He seemed perfect at first glance but after a while around him, you'd start noticing a few annoying little shades of his personality that terribly stood out. He suffered from an absolute lack of patience. The cruelest way to torture him was telling him he had to wait -for anything!
And don't give him any minucious work that takes lots tiny details or a very long time. And if he made a mistake and had to repeat it you'd see a real tantrum.
But as bad as his patience was, his temper was even worse. To tiniest thing would get on his nerves. A bug passing by would be killed right then, a pen out of ink in the middle of a sentence would fly all across the room, a letter wrong written would bring the paper to pieces in a second. And if the car broke down it got more curses than a pirate.
On those occasions it wasn't much fun to be around him. Fortunately he would never become a savage beast when he was with a girl. Even if his rage was towards her, he would never ever hit or yell at or call names, no matter how furious he was. He was a grouch, but above all he was a gentleman. One could call him anything but never "rude". When it came to taking up his anger with a living human he did a tremendous effort to keep calm. However arguing with him was inevitable. About any little nonsense, because every little nonsense made him mad.
But as quick as his rage striked, just as fast it disappeared. Five minutes after he blew his top he was calm as a lake and cheerful as a cricket. And if the other person was still hurt about the fight he would apologize, tease and spoil her until she gave in to make up.
Nobody could stay too long angry with him. He knew how to make anyone laugh. If you ever got stranded in a deserted island all you needed was Marcel and you'd never get bored. He was so full of life and optimism he could lift your spirits no matter how bad the day. He was always cheering everyone up, encouraging everyone, he never criticized. Instead of saying "you're doing it all wrong" he would say "the point is that you're doing it!" It was always "go on!" with him. Marcel had a truly postive spirit. Plus his wit and sense of humor were supreme. He had a way with words that would make you laugh your head off even in your worst crisis.
But comedy was the only time when he had a way with words: for any dramatic or serious talk he was the least eloquent person. The only point that lacked from his lover-boy talents: he couldn't make a speech. So to tell beautiful words to a girl, he had to quote them. If he tried to express his feelings and thought with his own ideas his tongue was tied up and he couldn't finish a phrase, and struggled to find the right words as if he was battling with a foreign language.
However, being as sweet as he, a minor defect would be easily forgiven. And he was sweet. And a dreamer. A hopeless romantic. Sentimental to the extreme. He cried with the silliest of dramatic movies. He cried with a sad song. He cried with a sappy poem. He was terribly sympathetic to others and couldn't stand to see anyone suffer. Everything touched and moved him. Everything impressed him. Beneath that strength and balance, his heart was amazingly sensitive.
That's why he fell in and out of love like the wind blew. That's why he truly suffered when a girl disappointed him, even if his nature would not allow him to be melancholic for a lengthy amount of time.
And, unfortunately, it did happen a lot.
He was rich, handsome and popular: a very good catch. And too many girls tried to use him. True, that more than half of his girlfriends had been mere adventures, but for a pride like his it was quite a blow to think the person wanted convenience and advantage more she wanted him. If you use him for sex that's allowed but for status and commodity was unforgivable. Sadly too many girls were blinded by the generous gifts and classy outings, by the pleasure of showing off the new cool boyfriend in front of her friends.
That was one thing Marcel would not put up with. As soon as he started to feel used the girl was ditched right away.
That was one of the things that made him fall in love with her, even if she wasn't the cover model type he was used to. She never asked him for anything. He was all she wanted, just him, his company, his love, and nothing else.
Lucky he was such a gentleman that he would offer her a ride home. Lucky she was poised enough to accept calmly without screaming with excitement that he was finally speaking to her, and even remembered her name. Lucky she was polite enough to refuse when he was polite enough to offer her a drink. And lucky for her they were alone in that ride and finally had the chance to talk and have a little quiet time. Lucky for her they clicked enough as for him to want to see her again and that he was annoyed enough with his last girlfriend as to want to make a new friend rather than a new conquest.
If he had wanted a new love, he would have tried one of the other girls that kept trying to get his attention, but he was not interested in starting a relationship that very day. If she had been a hot and sexy girl he wouldn't have asked her out that day, because he didn't want a love affair just then, and, that day, he wouldn't pay attention to any girl that might make a lover material. If she had shown very obvious interest in him he wouldn't have been so open. If she had let him know she wanted to be his sweetheart perhaps he would have gently told her to forget it. But she seemed nothing but nice and fun and, that exact day, he wanted a friendly chat. So he called her -her, the only one that wasn't trying to catch him... Or so he thought. But she bewitched him from the very first date.
Now her name was Judy Godin. And she wasn't his type at all.
On contrast with him, she was nobody's favorite and nobody minded her. But even though it took her a good while to get proper hold of his attention as soon as she could monopolize his talk and notice an instant chemistry flew. Even though she was not an outspoken character, and she was not very bright. She didn't stand out. That's why he hadn't noticed the looks of genuine anguish she had cast him from her corner while he was too busy scooping chicks at the pool. That's why he was heedless she was there swallowing repressed sighs every time he happened to pass near her. That's why he didn't even notice that she trembled all over when they shook hands and blushed like a cherry every time he addressed her.
She suffered, at first, with his aloofness. For she was a sentimental too, and even worse than him. A bigger dreamer and more hopeless romantic. She lived lost in a childlike universe of pink illusions, winged horses, perfumed flowers and fairy dust. She wouldn't go one single night without making a wish to her favorite star. She couldn't see one single sunset without stopping to marvel at the hues. She would giggle thrilled at a cartoon film she had seen twenty times. She would treat dolls like human beings and animals like children.
She lived buried in fairy tales and even resembled a fantasy character; she was like the sister Peter Pan never had, the young spirit that never grows out of her naive dreams. Her world was "gay and innocent and heartless", full of enchanted castles and invisible friends she dragged along with her everywhere, and magic sticks that sprinkled sparkles and stars all over, glittering in the darkness, that was always her favorite environment, for she was night lover.
Judy was sweet and naive enough to be Snow White, shy and reserved as Melanie Hamilton and poised and smart like Mary Poppins. She was brought up in the most classical ways of a lady education. She was elegant, polite, carefully trained with diplomatic manners. She looked like a painting, her back straight as she sat down with her hands neatly folded on her lap and her eyes fixed on the floor. If you addressed her she would answer with whispers, or just a head tilt.
She was delicate and gentle, extremely serious and too well behaved. Her tastes were artsy and classic, posh and intellectual, and still she had a certain extravagant -absurd- aura around her that gave her a sort of hippie glow. There was something so childish about her that just made you want to protect her, cuz she seemed so very fragile, like the classic little lady that fainted ten times a day and got exhausted after one waltz, stiffling behind her fan if the room turned up just one degree.
They were two opposite poles. As much as he was healthy and full of energy she was a bunch of hypocondriac weaknesses. As much as he was positive she was pesimistic. He was persistent and liked to do whatever he liked, without measuring a success, she was most likely the type that would give up something if it didn't turn out exacty perfect. He was calm and relaxed, she would kick herself up for months after a tiny mistake. He only cared to have friends and be loved, without forcing himself into a specific mold or stereotype, while she wouldn't be able to sleep if she failed to fit the ideal image she had for herself. And he needed to be liked, but she gave little (if any) attention to what others thought of her. She struggled to be perfect, but only before her own eyes. Her opinion of her made the difference between success and failure.
She was the artist type, one that creates her own personal universe and forgets the entire world around her. She locked in a shell and ignored the very few boys that ever found her appealing. Sometimes someone would try to get her attention, or try to ask her out, or whistle at her on the street -or chase all over the place begging for her name. But she assumed they did it to tease and annoy her. She knew she was plain as a wall, and didn't mind the attention.
Besides she was too busy drowned in her ocean of philosophy. The very few times she would make her voice heard in a conversation it was to throw a deep wise remark that would make every head turn, before she sank herself again into her silent and self-absorbed reflections.
It was the first thing that frustrated Marcel after he got to know her better. Judy was too self-absorbed. When she was thinking, there was no way to connect with her. She had the ability to ignore you for hours -or even days- if something within her inner world required her attention.
There was no way to make her tell you what she was thinking about, or reveal her dreams, or fears, or confess why she was upset. There was no way to make her talk if she didn't want to. Unless she took the initiative of voluntarily communicating what was on her mind, asking was a waste of time. Her world belonged to her and she alone decided who she shared it with -if.
But when she made up her mind to speak you had to pay close attention, for she would become more introspective if she felt her words fell into deaf ears. Just show her once that you don't listen and she'll never speak again. She would decide the person was impossible to talk to and keep her thoughts to herself. Then it was like walking on broken glass: you could never tell what hid inside that mysterious mind and you knew if you ever hurt or upset her you'd be the last to know. And you'd say "Something wrong? Are you upset" and she'd mumble through her teeth, looking away "Do I look upset to you?" and blame it on your own imagination.
And then you'd see her sulking for days and days. And you didn't know what you did cuz she wouldn't tell you. And you'd try to remember what she told you when you didn't want to listen but she won't repeat a word.
But if you did listen, she would open her shell and trust you with her life, welcoming you inside her little world to show you all its wonders.
And it was that world, so neatly trimmed, so full of sweetness, that fascinated Marcel out of his wits. So far he had a lot to deal with shallow people and longed for a sensitive soul that would show him the way to quietness. She taught him how to expand his mind, how to connect with his own spirit, she introduced him to the colors of the blank and the music of the silence.
At first she had worried him with her seriousness and the way she resisted enjoyment of any kind. He had to teach her to laugh, to accept things that were only amusing and appealing, even if they don't serve a deep philosophical purpose. He couldn't quite understand her need for spiritual stimulation, but he managed to save her from the isolation that made her worship only her own ghosts. He convinced her to play, he pushed her into fun and thrill, he made her lose her composure.
They complemented each other like ice and fire. And that much they were opposite -and mismatched. She had never seen someone so full of life, while he was fascinated at her balance. She was as calm as he wouldn't dream: she had an endless patience, an ice temper, the most analytic mind and computerized memory. She did have an easiness with words and images, she could express her thoughts and feelings with the most graphic descriptions, she was a natural poet.
And, as much as he was sensual, she was platonic. Her concept of love was entirely built on feelings and dreams, thoughts and impressions, sex didn't exist in her little dimension. She was an untouched, unkissed, unhugged, unseen virgin when they met. Ironically she didn't really care to be. It wasn't an obsessive protection of her purity, just the sheer coincidence that she'd never liked anyone before. And she was too cold by nature to be cloying so her displays of affection were as platonic as her vision of her love object, so extreme physical fondling wasn't needed. Her sentimental demonstrations were as economical as her words in a conversation with a stranger -and being head over heels about him couldn't change her overnight.
She was an iceberg, but instead of appalling him, it attracted him more. It was a challenge to break her ice and make her admit she was melted. He taught her how to kiss, in that tender way she had dreamed from her pink books; he taught her that her body too had feelings, he taught her the "earthy" sensations she had never believed in, and showed her how sweet a simple touch can be. He knew how to unlock her shell and shyness with the patience of an angel, he had the key to seduce her, to make her surrender to his charm, because he always knew where to draw the line, and never crossed it. It was a challenge to make her fall into his arms when she struggled to stay serene and watch her fall under his spell for a moment before her cold rational mind was activated again and made her back off to her poised position. She would resist temptation with the will of a priest and he was thrilled and amused watching her lay her guard down little by little, one step at a time, blushing and running at every new revelation.
But he never ever tried to push her, or got upset about her negative response, or showed he was displeased with her constant escaping him. He never ever pressed her, for he understood her fragile soul and knew if he made her think that it was expected of her then she would probably give in only to humor him but a monstruous regret was to follow. He understood her sensitive nature and knew this was much too delicate a subject to play with, and in this one particular department one mistake would be unrepairable.
Besides she was full of surprises. She claimed to have an ice cube for a heart and then jumped on him like a tigress, only to retreat in her corner again after a passionate slip. And instead of feeling discouraged he was amused and thrilled exploring the many shades of this peculiar personality.
However she was no picnic. Even if he knew her better than anyone in the world and was the only person that ever truly understood her eccentric ways, she was frustrating. She was grumpier than him, and a big sulker. She was extremely vain too, even if she was more discreet than him to admit it. She was a brat, capricious, whimsical and stubborn, always needing her own way, always wanting the last word. She was self-absorbed, absent-minded, egocentric, introspective, extremely moody, and very spoilt.
But he never -not once- told her to change. He loved her little moods, her pouts, her isolations, her phobias, her tantrums, her greedy ambitions, her changes of mind, her obsessions about little things and how she got ridiculously excited like a child about all sort of nonsense. He loved her silly abstract fears and her depressive fits, her unjustified melancholies and endless stress, her inability to relax and take things easy, her constant hurry and obsessive punctuality, her iron rules for living and her square old-fashioned concept of right and wrong, her robot-like programming for every little thing she did and needed a tight control of her life, the way she hated surprises and avoided everything unknown.
Just as she took his temper, his fights, his gaping at other girls in her presence, his teasing her about her absurd ways and his entire entourage of people that annoyed her. She accepted his lack of cleverness and depth, his always being late for a date, their different points of view, their different likes, his noisy shallow friends, his not caring when he messed things up, his never thinking before he acted, his lack of intellectual interest, his little fits, his unpredictibleness and his trying too hard to stand out. She was patient when he did stupid mistakes or hurt her feelings, she resigned with his loudness and earthy habits and tastes.
She even forgave his little affairs, because, hard as he tried, he could not overcome the temptation of running after a hot babe that appeared before his eyes and sometimes, while he was gone on holidays and far from Judy, Marcel fell victim of his own personality. It tore him deeply to hurt her so and always told her she had every right to seek a better company since he could not bare to upset her like this all the time. She forgave him, howver, again and again, against her own heart and ration, she could not let him go, no matter how much he hurt her. Maybe because she was too attched or too afraid of never finding another to love her. Or maybe because she appreciated his honesty, cuz he was always the first to tell her the very next day of his adventure. If he had not confessed, if he had lied to her, they would be over in one day. But seeing him reveal his fault, even at the risk of losing her, made her trust him, because he was so truly sorry she even became to believe he could not help doing it. Or maybe because he made her so completely happy when they were together that it made it seem like those things he did apart from her didn't matter. No matter how much he hurt her, how much they argued, he always knew how to make up to her, how to make her forget it, how to earn her forgiveness.
But they were both incurable sentimentals, so, in spite of all their misfits, when they sat by the fire on a rainy night reading a sappy love book together, stayed up until sunrise singing love songs on the piano and struggle for his handkerchief at a sad movie, they were just made for each other. They would get lost for eternities in endless mellow and slow kisses that, with all her rehearsed coldness, she could do as sensual as him.
They still had a good deal in common too. They were both obssessed with responsibilities, you'd never see those two lying around when there was a job to be done. Of course, he was a million times more relaxed than her, that thought her world over if she ever broke a promiss, or failed a deadline or kept someone waiting. And they were both mad about grooming. He more than her, had a exagerated sense of order and need for neatness. Not a hair out of place, not the tiniest spot on the clothes, colors matched, not a sign of wrinkles, the perfume must be according to the weather, the shoes must shine like diamonds, everything just so, check the mirror a million times to make sure, then think how it could be even better. Tipycal of two vain personalities: never let the public see you unperfect: everything had to be so neatly trimmed, clean, combed, shaved, flawless as a picture. And both loved to show off polished manners.
Then after a good while together he started to realize Judy was actually beautiful, even if she was quite different from his past girls and not "convencionally" sexy, she had special charm of her own. True that she was no movie diva, but he became seriously in love with her deep, expressive, childish eyes that seemed always lost in a trance, with her shiny silky hair, that he spent hours brushing while they chatted, with her round cheeks, that she hated for lack of color, but he loved for their smoothness, and even the extra volume of her figure, that she tried dispairately to hide in black clothes, and made her moan and whine in front of the mirror in a swimsuit, became appealing to him. She lived trapped in a million diets but he tried to console her comparing her to Greek sculptures and Reinassance paintings of chubby nimphs and godesses, pointing out a beauty she had never even though of. Like we said before: Marcel had a way to make you feel like a cream cake, if he liked you that much. She had never considered she was remotely attractive and took compliments as irony, but he convinced her she was lovely and made her feel pretty, sensual, delicious -because that's how he saw her.
But above all, they could always count on each other. One just had to ring and say "I need to see you" and the other would leave everything hanging and run over. They were always there for help, encouragement and affection. They were both more giving than taking. And it meant a lot to him that she wasn't as materialistic as many other girls. She never cared how much he spent on her, how much he spoiled her. For her the gifts, the fancy places, the jealous looks she got when she was spotted with him in his shiny car, were just icing on the cake.
And he knew she would always be understanding and forgiving, but he also knew there were false steps he could not take: he knew she could forget a mistake but not a real disappointment. Being with her was like handling a salt statue, that is ready to crumble in your hands at the slightest touch.
He knew her fantasy world was a taboo subject he shouldn't mess up with: life had to be as pretty as those pink dreams or she'd shut up in her imagination and avoid reality -and that included him. He never asked her to give up her goals or dreams, even if they sometimes distracted her attention from him, never ignored her when she felt lonely, never lied to her or kept secrets, no matter how painful the truth was, never made her feel used by forgetting to thank an attention or by demanding more than she could give him, or by showing he cared more about the favors than her company. They both had that in common: they would be extremely open until they felt used just once, and that would turn blind generosity into coarse selfishness and stern misgivings.
They both knew they had a strong pride in common. Both of them demanded respect above all in life. No matter how much he loved her or how much she loved him, none of them could stand a relationship where respect was weak at all. He knew he could argue with her and dissappoint her lots of times and she would always forgive him -as long as he made her feel respected. She never used cheap shots during fights, nor did he. She never insulted him, nor did he. She never made him feel like she saw him as an idiot, and he carefully avoided that too. No matter how much they inevitably hurt each other, she never felt offended. He could hurt her heart, but not her pride. A million tears could be overlooked, but one insult would kill a little piece of their relationship forever. Based on mutual respect they managed to overcome their differneces. For them every conflict was a fair fight.
He knew that, without warning, she could take her heart away and give it to someone else. That meant if he took her for granted she would vanish like a fairy and never return again. And he knew even if she might forgive him, after he let her down her flame would burn out and she'd never be the same to him. That's why he let her have her way and be a dreamer. That's why he always made up after a fight, before she had time to sulk too much and feel too hurt, that's why he never neglected her need for affection and tenderness, that's why he never pressed her to have sex and let her take things at her own speed, and never asked her to change or treated her like a possession he owned. That's why he never threatened her freedom and independence. That's why he let her be and accepted her the way she was.
And for that she loved him to pieces.
(This story was finished on August 2002)
