A ceramic Christmas ornament, two otters with their paws linked.
...
We skip lunch since Sophie's not hungry and head to the museum right away.
Jane had managed to get us tickets to theMuseum of Fine Artsthrough one of her coworkers, so we're able to breeze through the entrance without much waiting. The warm museum is a welcome relief from the brisk wind, and Sophie's red nose and cheeks return to their normal color, and I feel a coil of tension leave my chest at that.
I know she's not fragile in the general sense—on the contrary, she's the strongest woman I've ever known—but I still watch her. It's practically instinct now. I worry if she's feeling okay, if she's too tired, if she's feeling too cold. If she tells me, I can fix it. I know I'm good at fixing things, and for Sophie, I'd move mountains.
Still, she catches me watching and shoots me that knowing look—equal parts fond and exasperated.
"I love you, otter," she mutters, tugging at my hand, "but stop fussing."
I kiss the back of her fingers. "Never."
Like the zoo, the place is a little crowded but not overwhelming. But it feels like we're in our own world. We wander hand in hand, taking our sweet old time. When we stop in front of the artwork, Sophie leans her head against my arm, and I look back and forth between the art and her expression.
The museum seems to cast a spell, not only on us but also on everyone around us. There's a low hum throughout the museum, making it feel alive—soft laughter, sniffles, and low murmurs. And I feel a sense of appreciation for the art I've never felt before; my art of choice has always been books—pages of words tied together in a certain way to evoke certain emotions and paint a picture of a story.
This is different, yet also the same, just colors tied together in stillness to capture a scene. I allow myself to turn my brain off, look at the art pieces—the finest one of all being the woman next to me—and just feel.
We stop in front of one of the museum's most popular paintings—Dance at Bougival.
The colors used are bright, vibrant, and beautiful. In the painting is a couple—a bearded man in a straw hat twirling a dark-haired woman in a dance. They're in a crowd of people, but everything seems to fade. The rest of the world bends for them, for their love. Everything else just fades.
I can relate,I think, as Sophie and I stand side by side, next to many other couples observing the painting.
Sophie lets out a quiet, dreamy sigh. "She's pretty."
"She is," I acknowledge, but lean down to murmur in her ear. "She's got nothing on you."
"Flatterer."
"Truth-teller," I counter, and she grins, burrowing deeper into my side.
"He reminds me of you. My big, bearded man."
"Should I get a hat like that?"
"Absolutely," her eyes light up, her tone completely serious.
When we leave the museum an hour later, I notice Sophie looking a little sleepy—her blinks are becoming longer, and her steps are a little slow.
"You hungry?" I ask her. "We could go out for dinner... or grab something to bring back to the hotel."
"That one," she murmurs, sleepily as I guide her to our waiting rideshare. We go to a nearby deli, picking up a couple of subs, chips, and drinks, and then walk the short distance back toThe Salvatore.
It feels a little silly walking into this luxury hotel with our plastic bag of ratherundignifiedfood, but we don't even care; nothing can bring down the mood today.
"Go shower and warm up, baby," I tell her once we're back in the suite. "I'll set up our feast."
She grins and salutes me, disappearing into the bathroom while I pull the coffee table closer to the couch and lay out our spread. Two subs—turkey for her, Italian for me, macaroni salad, a big bag of kettle chips, and two still-warm chocolate chip cookies. A little indoor picnic with my girl.
I quickly change into comfortable clothes just as Sophie emerges from the bathroom, robe wrapped around her, and the silk wrap on her head. Her makeup, eyebrows, and eyelashes have all been removed, so all I can see is her beautiful, bare face.
I stop mid-movement, caught off guard for a second by how heartbreakingly beautiful she is.
When she catches me staring, her cheeks darken, but a grin curves her lips.
