He Knows ||DRABBLE||
He knows her.
He knows every shade of brown because somehow her eyes hold them. He knows that it’s not a desolate color, but one full of life, one that shine brighter than any star he’s seen.
He knows how she takes a soft brush through auburn hair at night, sitting at a vanity, watching the curls bounce up and down as she does so. He knows because he’s taken the brush through it, softly, every so softly, combing her hair until it was just how she wanted it.
He knows that when she’s upset, she wears a blush he tries not to find endearing. He knows she won’t explode with anger as he sometimes does, but will sit in silence, red cheeks and all.
He knows how tall she is. Not because he’s asked or taken measurement, but because when he holds her, her lips have easy access right over his heart, which only pounds harder when she does it.
He knows she loves the sunrise. So he wakes up early enough to see it with her. He’d never seen beauty in it until the day he sat on the porch with her, one arm over her shoulder, the other holding the tea she’d nearly spilled when she fell asleep against him.
He knows the changes in her voice. It’s clipped and harsh when she’s upset…he knows he’s done something wrong. But when she’s content, happy, it’s like honey, soft and smooth and sweet.
He knows she wears heels because she’s seen his reaction to them. Even if it means she needs a foot massage at the end of the day.
He knows how hard she works, and he admires her so much for it. He knows she works twice as hard as he does for half the credit. It’s not fair, he’d mumble. He knows she thinks so too, but is still happy for him.
He knows her mind like a map he’d studied for years. She’s scheduled, and likes to read books with happy endings. He knows he can’t blame her, and always brings new ones for her.
He knows her body more than her mind. He knows that she expects that. Her body was much more predictable, and when he says so, she laughs. He knows to kiss her hip bones, and to brush his lips over her neck.
He knows her favorite color, and it’s his as well, because of her love for it. Never had red meant so much to him.
He knows she’s fearsome, and that to try and tell her what to do would end with him being shot at. So he doesn’t tell her to stop waking up to make him a warm glass of milk. He doesn’t admit that he can feel her brush her fingertips across his lashes. Besides, he knows that’s her affection for him.
He knows who she was, who she is, and who she will be.
He knows her, and she loves him for it.
[Companion piece to: “She Knows”, found here.]
