“You wouldn’t be calling me beautiful if you could see what I look like right now,” she accuses.
“Nonsense,” I admonish. “You’ve always been beautiful in my eyes.” I swallow the lump in my throat and smile. “Always will be too,” I whisper.
“Always the sweet talker,” she says sadly.
True.
In the beginning I dazzled Grace with my fancy words and grand gestures until I learned she didn’t need all that—having me was all she needed. Even after realizing that I still sweet-talked her and surprised her any chance I could get.
“What’re you wearing?”
“Victor!”
Trying not to succumb to another coughing fit and ruin one of our final moments I try to keep my laugh at bay.
“Paint me a picture, Gracie,” I plead. “Please?”
The sound of her soft breath sings against my ear as she remains silent.
“Where are you?” I coax.
“In our bedroom,” she responds hesitantly.
Closing my eyes, I picture her sitting on the foot of our bed with the phone to her ear.
Go stand in front of the mirror, Grace,” I instruct, keeping my eyes closed as I envision her slowly rise from the bed and pad across the worn carpet of our bedroom to the floor to ceiling mirror we keep perched against the wall in the corner.
“Are you looking at yourself?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Tell me what you see. Start from your head and work your way down to your toes.”
“My hair is up in a bun…”
“Let it down, Grace. Please.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, the phone shuffling around before her sweet voice fills my ears again. “It’s down.”
“Good girl,” I whisper. “Do you have your glasses on?”
“No, today isn’t the day for this, I’m not wearing any make-up and the dark circles beneath my eyes are on display. I’ve got more wrinkles than I care to admit and the lines that pinch the corners of my eyes seem to have doubled overnight.”
Her hair was dark brown when I first met her but after she turned forty, she started dying it hoping to restore her youth, and now my Grace had blonde highlights. I picture her blondish hair flowing around her face, a perfect contrast to her olive skin freckled from the sun. Her brown eyes are no doubt tired and dull from the stress she’s been under but I try my hardest to see the eyes of the young girl I fell in love with and not the woman I broke. The lines she describes match the ones I have on my face, they are the lines that tell the story of our life together. For all the thousands of smiles there are faint lines on each of our faces. For every hundred tears is another bunch and the rest are made up from the ups and downs of life, the seasons of change and the lessons we learn, both beautiful and trying at times.
“My lips are pale pink and there is a beauty mark on my lower lip that just won’t go away,” she continues.
I smile as I think of all the times I kissed that beauty mark and all the others she keeps hidden beneath her clothes. Like the one on the back of her upper thigh or the several that pepper the swell of her breasts.
“I’m wearing my favorite nightgown, the blue silk one you bought me three Christmases ago. Do you remember it?”
“How could I forget it?” It was October when I bought the silk nightgown and matching robe and for two months I pictured her wearing it. When I finally gave it to her on Christmas morning, I made her run upstairs and put it on. It wound up on the floor twenty minutes later.
“I’ve lost weight, so it’s gotten big on me but I can’t part with it,” she admits, growing silent for a moment. “When I’m lonely or missing you I put it on and I feel close to you.”
I lift my hand to my face and brush away the tear that betrays me and slides down my cheek.
“I miss you too, Grace,” I whisper before clearing my throat. “Keep looking at yourself in the mirror and let me tell you what I see, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I see my bride, my wife, the mother of my children and the woman I share grandchildren with all wrapped up in the beauty staring back at you. I remember when I first met you, I thought there wasn’t a more beautiful woman in the whole world but you proved me wrong with every passing year becoming even more exquisite. When you look in the mirror, I want you to remember this conversation, remember my voice telling you how beautiful you are, and with every passing year remember you only become more beautiful. When you stare at the lines upon your face, embrace them, for they are the story of us etched into your skin.”
Her sobs make me pause giving us both a chance to collect ourselves.
“Every year you age I want you to remember how beautiful you are,” I persist, choking on my words as I bow my head and lean my forehead against the wall. “I won’t be there to remind you but when you look in the mirror, I want you to recall this conversation and know wherever I am I’m whispering in your ear, telling you you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world,” I finish hoarsely.