His Face. Bavaria.

Sometimes I will grab my husband, usually by the head, mash up his cheeks in my hands and say,

“Your face. Your STUPID face. I LOVE YOUR FACE. I’m … I’m gonna eat your face because I LOVE IT SO MUCH.”

I assume that all couples who have been together for more than a decade behave this way, expressing their affection through threats of cannibalism.

The thing is, though, I really do adore his face, every (tiny) crease and freckle and even the errant chicken pox scar on his forehead (that is almost, but not quite, a mirror reflection of one I have). To quote one of my favorite movies, “It’s … it’s a good face.”

On a quiet afternoon in Garmisch, in Southern Bavaria, the expressions that played on that good face of his were nothing short of amazing to me. He looked like a method actor, and I could almost hear the cues coming from the wings.

Flirtatiously skeptical!

I call this one “flirtatiously skeptical.”

–

Pensive.

–

Imagine you’ve just won a lifetime supply of puppies!

–

… which makes you think of the first puppy you ever had.

“Good old Mr. Fuzzbottom. He was the best dog a kid could have.”

–

I could have watched him all afternoon, and to be fair, I kind of did. (Marriage is nice, because you basically get to stalk the object of your desire without it being creepy.)

Then the other man in my life, my wee nephew, followed suit. I might be biased here, but man, that kid? He has a good face, too.

–

–

–

–

Then this happened:

–

And once more, loved was expressed through cannibalism.

–

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go. In the words of Morrissey, my heart is full.