He wasn’t even my type. He was fair skinned like me, with steely blue eyes and large, white teeth that took up most of his face when he smiled. Which was often, I noticed. He liked to laugh and dance, was light on his feet when he took me in his arms to jitterbug or slow dance; no matter what the tempo, it always felt the same. He even let me lead, sometimes.
He took pleasure in doing things for others and never took himself too seriously. He was the kind of man who could just sit there and listen to a woman and really hear what she was saying, not just nodding in agreement while secretly wishing she’d be done already.
He was tall, but not towering, and stocky, but not Santa-esque.
When I talked to him I found myself searching his face for some clue as to who he really was. I looked at the deep creases in his weathered cheeks, the laugh lines around his eyes, the haphazard spread of silver among his darker hair, and the kindness in his voice when he spoke to waitresses and cashiers, and it was then that I decided without any hesitation whatsoever: this was a good man.
View From ThE Apple House 
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