There was an entertaining book discussion on my good buddy Jas T. Ward’s Facebook page, that turned into a discussion of words like “sexy” and “panties” that for whatever reasons, drive me crazy. From there, the discussion continued to go down hill…in the best possible way. It inspired me to write a not so sexy post. I had planned on it being humorous but what came out…well….let’s just say not only did I miss the mark, I kinda took it another direction. Not intentionally. It shows that I really didn’t have a conscious choice in the matter. My mind will churn out whatever it wants.
So here it goes…
Martha fumbled with her bags of groceries as she entered her small bungalow. Greeted by a much too loud television playing highlights from some glory year of some team in NFL history. She had no clue what team nor did she care. All she knew was the monotone voice of the narrator grated on her nerves and reminded her of documentaries shown in school that would lull students to sleep. If that was the appeal – to bore you to sleep – well, then she could almost understand why somebody would watch.
Her gaze shifted over to the worn leather recliner that leaned a bit to the left due to a broken support in the back. Harold lay there, snoring, nearly naked except for his not so tidey whitey briefs. One hand lay lax below his rounded belly and just under the band of the briefs while the other loosely held a red solo cup he had been using as a spittoon.
Sighing, she set down the bags on the coffee table and went over to take the cup from his hand and lift the leg that had fallen off to the side to put back on the foot rest of the recliner. Grabbing a throw from the back of the couch, she went to cover him up but paused as she noticed he was wearing mix matched socks, jacked up to mid calf that he must have thrown on in haste when he got ready for work in the morning. A smile curved her lips as that was something that would bother her but he never seemed to care about. “They’re just socks. They cover your feet. What does it matter if they match?” he would say.
Laying the blanket over him, she stood there and just looked down at him as he slept. Fine lines marked his brow and the corners of his eyes from years of the sun beating down on him as he worked construction. He was not the picture of health by any means and between that and his questionable fashion sense or lack there of, people often wondered what Martha saw in him. But those were the people who didn’t know Harold or how they were together. They didn’t know the big heart he had or experience his kindness. They didn’t know the playful and sometimes embarrassing sense of humor he had that could bring Martha out of any bad mood. They didn’t know the sacrifices he had made to make her and others happy.
To Martha, true beauty can’t be found on the surface. It was laying there on a broken recliner, snoring none too quietly under a ratty old afghan.