I Am This Shallow

I am sitting in the kitchen, ostensibly reading the weekend paper, while he bustles around me, clearing away breakfast dishes, washing pots, and characteristically ranting about something - Politics, or Gay Marriage, or the Persian Empire - something Important anyway. It is very hot in the kitchen, and he is barefoot and shirtless (this will become important later on in the story).

I put on my "serious face," the one that says, "I hear you and I understand the point you are trying to make, and am formulating a considered response." I look up occasionally with an appropriate, "hmmmm..." or "hah," or "right right, yeaaaah..." And then I catch myself. Wait a minute - I'm not even listening! I have no idea what he just said or what I said back or why. I am completely running an automated response. Because what I am ACTUALLY doing is staring at him, at his shirtlessness, at his curved muscles as he lifts and shifts and moves, and I am thinking, "he is sooo pretty."

I am this shallow.