“He looked at her the way all women want to be looked at by a man.” -The Great Gatsby
This is the quote that comes to mind when he looks at me. I watch his eyes travel over the crevices of my face as if he has been searching for something all his life and finally found it. I have never had someone look at me the way he does. His face is placid, but his eyes say more than words ever could. And he could sit there for hours looking at me if I let him, but I can’t stand even a few seconds of his pool-green eyes hovering above me.
He keeps saying that he loves the way I look and feel, and for some reason that statement makes me want to turn away from him and hide myself.
I have never enjoyed compliments. I find them difficult to accept and even more difficult to respond to. I can’t ever manage a sufficient “Thank You” because I immediately want to counter whatever compliment was given to me. Surely the person must be mistaken. And anytime someone pays me a compliment, for example complimenting on my smile, I begin to think of everything that is wrong with my smile. I suppose his eyes look like they have found something worth looking at, and I am afraid that he is going to start seeing what I see in the mirror, and that look of fascination and awe will be replaced with something horrible.
I want him to be able to look at me and me not turn away, and thank god he is patient. I doubt he will ever take his eyes off me, and I wish it could be something that comforted me instead of scared me.