Mary craned her neck around the corner into the kitchen.
"Oh that's alright. I'm fine with just a little bit of milk...no sugar. I'm a pretty plain and simple girl."
Tim made the coffee concoctions and joined Mary on the torn sage couch that once made its home in his Dad's house since before he was even out of diapers. He handed Mary the oversized mug and she thanked him. Eleven years ago, Tim kissed his first girl on that couch; a spunky, freckle-nosed brunette with two long braids hanging over her shoulders. He had kissed her spontaneously after watching one of those ooshy-gooshy movies that girls her age like, and she proceeded to wipe the kiss from her lips, expressing her disgust.
Now, he looked at the woman sitting next to him on that couch and could not believe a girl like her had never cringed at his kisses. Mary turned her body to face him, her elbows resting upon her knees, one hand twirling her sun-kissed locks. Her hair never needed much maintenance. It was always messy, but beautiful that way. Her other hand lifted her mug to her lips until she had to let go of her hair to assist in supporting the weight. For a moment, they sipped in silence.
"I don't know ... I don't think you're a plain and simple girl...I think..."
He had already told Mary he loved her and she had received it, to his surprise, with much gratitude and reciprocity. The fear that the vision in front of him was exactly that - just a vision - caused him to brush his fingertips over the tattoo on his forearm as he always did when he got nervous. Mary, attuned to his behavior after their months spent together, followed his fingers with her eyes that morphed to the color of the couch. She waited anxiously for what he would say next. He searched for the words. How could he ever describe this woman who wore old hand-me-downs yet looked like a beauty queen, who expressed herself in the most extravagant paintings and was always up for a last minute hike without a map, or for an afternoon of sitting in the garden with a good book. And out it came...
"...you're a total Baskerville."
He looked up at her just in time to watch her eyebrows go from a height of anticipation, to the depths of confusion.
"Baskerville? What does that mean?"
He couldn't find the strength to explain, afraid that she would vanish as soon as he verbalized his feelings. He touched his tattoo again and hoped she could discover his hidden meaning without him having to use his own words.
"Look it up."
The corners of her lips turned up with the prospect of an adventure within this puzzle. The gigantic coffee mug soon hid her face so all Tim could see was her eyes smiling at him from above the brim. He chuckled at how he ever let a girl make him stumble over his words, but was pleased nonetheless.
After a day of treasure hunting through numerous internet search engines with no pot of gold in sight, Mary approached Tim, who sat with a book in his hand by the weeping willow next to the pond. She stood over him, the sun on her back turning her into a silhouette wrapped in a halo of light. Tim stared at the angelic figure in front of him. Her voice, laced with frustration, broke the silence of his dreaming.
"Ok, so I looked it up and all I could come up with is that Baskerville is a font!"
She crouched down opposite him allowing the sun rays to flood in and warm his body once more. He loved her at every angle.
"It is a font," he assured her.
While laying his book at his side, he tucked a piece of her unruly hair behind her ear, taking his time so he could touch her as long as possible.
"Sooo... you think I'm a font...?"
One eyebrow lifted as she demanded a reason.
"Well... kind of. We learned about Baskerville in one of my computer classes. This guy in the 1700s, or something like that, dedicated practically his entire life perfecting this font of his. When you look at Baskerville, it looks like your everyday, simple, run of the mill font. But, when you look deeper, you see how perfect it is... the proportions, the serifs, how refined it is. It is the perfect font."
Mary's face softened and she felt warmth coming from behind her eyes.
Tim continued. "Ya... And this was during the printing press days where they had to use those stamps, ya know, on that big machine. Quite the tedious process. Well, this guy, so treasured his font that he rarely printed anything with it, afraid the letters would become damaged, since all the stamps became worn with use. And when he would use his font, he dipped the letters in an ink of pure gold... well, that's what they say at least."
Mary's face scrunched, trying to allow her sincere, touched smile win the battle against the tears that came forth. She leaned in and kissed him. Her eyes, now the color of the weeping willow fighting the spring breeze behind them, trickled tears down Tim's cheeks. Without wiping them from his face, he allowed them to soak into his skin, wishing he could write her a book filled with his adoration.
*Based on a true story ... unfortunately, not my own ... sigh*
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