I'd placed the hardback wooden chair facing into a corner of the bedroom, because I love her, and she has an old knee injury that hates standing still for long. Almost as much as she hates it. But it hadn't been used in awhile, when I came home on Sunday.
If you've never had the pleasure of coming through the door to find your darling wife, your child-bride, as it were (and gifting you with the hope that you, too, cherish yours such that her happiness lights up your life), sitting on a hard-backed chair facing the corner of her bedroom, then you really must try harder. Charm incarnate. Well worth devoting a life to finding.
Now, the question would leap into my mind, at least, had I just read that: "Yes, but what did you put her in the corner for? And what was going through her mind when she heard you were home??"
Creatures like us, bent toward the glow of the Sacred Blush, of the secret smile that curls up safe under a firmly-guiding, cherishing arm, just seem to crave every detail of these things. I know I do.
But I'm a hopeless emotional voyeur. Peering gently into where the shadows flitter about inside you, in the loneliest part of the Dark Sacred Night, the better to flush them out, and wrap you in arms that feel like their opposite.
Ay, but there's the rub, you might say... albeit prematurely. I didn't put her in the corner. I came home to find that she'd put herself in the corner.
Now, she's a quarter deaf from the screaming Aerosmith she blasts her pretty head with... can't possibly hear me coming... is always surprised by me coming through the bedroom door, when I've been out. And she'd no way of knowing how long my errand might've taken!
So how long had it been? How long had she stewed in the tummy-flutterbies of the Sacred Blush which only a young lady, facing a corner, and demonstrating that she's probably earned a real punishment, can feel -- and what more endearing token of the utter emotional realism that's possible in these wondrous experimental lives, where we're permitted the profundity of life's two most meaningful relationships we ever have, rolled up into one sea-scented, soft package, than for her to overcome the very understandable Liddel instinct to scamper away from being in trouble, resign both her big and little self to some peril-fraught consequence that I'm not even yet aware of, and to've begun the inevitable, so bravely?
Well, yes, there is something just slightly more endearing, as swollen a heart as this tableau brought forth within me as I paused in that long, drawn-out beat, and admired my 'girl facing the corner on a hard-backed chair, waiting for me to deal with her.
Which was when she turned, looking over her shoulder from this place... this space... this headspace of such poignant girlishness, every iota of all these moving tokens of the child within this bright woman to be seen on her very, very chagrined face, and all the many-splendored things that her pretty eyes said to me (perfect punctuation to the thousands of words painted by this picture of the pure emotional honesty of a child who knows something I don't, and resigns herself to what she knows is right) in delightful contrast to the framing reality that this was a very grownup woman with her nose in the corner, apparently telegraphing that she deserved to be there.
The usual dance that delights me occurred, in these wrestling two themes that thrill me so, the heated glow of the adult yearnings for the adult she is, grapples with the heart-warming charm and undeniable up-welling swell of intrigue at the blushing ways her little side needs my firm guidance.
Peering back was the chagrined little girl of our genre's endless lore, in trouble and broadcasting every possible frequency of acceptance that she simply cannot change what she knows, that I will know, is best for both ends of her, and most especially good for the heart in the middle.
She took a deep, resigned breath and her eyes dropped, still peering contritely and blushingly over her shoulder at me, and she began her confession...
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