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It wasn’t the way her skin felt so smooth, so warm and inviting against their open palm. It wasn’t her smile, so bright it could put the stars to shame. It wasn’t the way she always moved with purpose, thoughtful, like she was about to impart something new and immaculate onto the world, and she knew it.
No, no, it was none of those things that made Marlene feel like their heart would absolutely jump right out of their chest if not for the shield of their rib cage.
It was her eyes.
Dorcas Meadowes had eyes that one could fall into and be content to never reach the bottom. Her eyes were deep and warm, full of quiet and knowing comfort, like a favorite blanket or a warm cup of tea. Her eyes, the deepest shade of brown, shone with flecks of honey gold that Marlene treasured profoundly, more than any riches the earth could muster, when the sun danced upon her gaze through the window every evening.
Somewhere in the depths of those stunning brown eyes lay a promise. That same promise is whispered by the first morning light, replenishing the confidence that the sun will once again rise. That same promise is held in the heart of a candle’s flame, unwavering against the darkness of the thunderstorm that shrieks and pounds its watery fists upon the windows at night. It is the promise that is sung from the rooftops, echoed endlessly and yet always perfectly fitting to one who sings it, before the flight back home to the safety of the nest.
To look into Dorcas’s eyes is to hope.
And every morning, when they begin to stir awake from their respective dreams and Marlene gets the chance to catch the very first glimpse of her eyes, that hope gives way to satisfaction. Every day that they wake up together, the sun is rising. Every day that they wake up together, the clouds begin to dissipate, giving way to a soft blue sky. Every day that they wake up together, a new song is sung.
And every day, every single day without fail, Marlene simply had to say it:
“Dorcas Meadowes, you are beautiful.”
And her eyes would crinkle at the corners, and her smile would shine brightly, and her hands would rest so softly against Marlene’s palms, and she would make a pointed statement in response.
“Marlene McKinnon, if only you could see what I see every morning.”
And they would both close their eyes, content to hold each other, and imagine a future somewhere in the depths of a shared gaze.