Her paintbrush glided across the canvas, leaving behind a trail of yellow as it passed. One last loop, one last curve, one last arch, and she was done. She stepped back to admire her work, and he did, too. It was a simple piece, probably done to death, but her rendition of it brought it to life. It was beautiful. Amazing, breathtaking in every sense.

Then his eyes shifted to the creator of the piece. She wore a pair of stained, worn old overalls that clung to her body by one strap on her left shoulder and were much too large for her. She wore a yellow tank top underneath, her vibrant orange curls loosely pulled together at the back of her neck in a haphazard bun. There was a streak of orange on her cheek, a blotch of green on her forehead, and she was barefoot.

She reflected so much of her painting at that moment – beauty, happiness, inner peace. Just watching her bask in this glow of serenity filled him with a warmth he wasn’t familiar with but welcomed with open arms.

She stood, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her hands stuck in the deep pockets of the overalls. Her lips were pursed, her eyebrows knitted together as she studied the piece. “What do you think?” she inquired him, indicating she was aware of his presence.

It had been described to him a thousand times, through his mother, older sister, or whatever stupid soap operas or chick flicks they made him sit through, but he knew. He understood. When all it took was a smile, a glance, or touch to make your heart melt. When you’d give everything to that one person because that one person was everything. When the one you wanted to wake up with in the morning with, and go to bed at night with, and do everything in between with was the only thing occupying your thoughts. That was true, real, bona fide love.

That was his reality. And he was dazzled. “I think it’s…astonishing, Rebecca. No words can describe,” he said finally, answering her question. He knew, and he was fairly sure she did, too, how much more was conveyed in those simple, small words.