Choking On Sapphires

91 Golden Hour

Genevieve stood in the room full of flowers that Alfie had given a new reason to love, for the remainder of the night. The staff broke down the rest of her bat mitzvah behind her but she paid them no mind. Now alone, she drank deeply of the scene before her to carry the portrait in her mind long after she had to leave. With everything but her lovely sanctuary now tidied, she had to say goodbye but held onto all the inspiration she needed to paint it later with the aid of the soft-focus memory and romanticizing lent.

"Perhaps I should've brought you your own canvas." Alfie muses as he approaches with warm hands to her shoulders.

"I'll never forget this. Even if I tried. No need to worry, the lense of remembrance compared to reality always makes for an interesting interpretation." Her eyes finally tear away from the view to meet the eyes of her fiancé.

"With a mind that forms opinions like that and a mouth as lovely to speak em, how did I go so long without askin' you to be my wife?" He gives her a well-intentioned smirk and raises her chin for a brief kiss. One with a glad proudness to it for his good fortune and decision to seal the contract of a lifetime.

"Because we're both stubborn as mules." She arches one brow high in an honest and only slightly sarcastic response. "Overachievers who want the best and yet are smart enough to know that perfection, an ideal, isn't realistic, yet we chase it."

"Keep talkin' like ya and we'll be given 'ese lads a show right here in the floor, love." He whispers with the same playfulness her smirk lends him, giving her a cheeky wink that causes his favorite laughter to erupt from her painted lips.

"I'd much prefer the comfort of our bed and so would your knees." A pleased smile graves her mouth that smiles at him softly with no judgment, only an intimate knowledge of the things he preferred to whine about come morning. "Shall we go home, Alfie darling?" A sweet suggestion laid upon him just like her hands to his chest.

"Whatever it is Mrs. Solomons wants, she gets,

innit?" He plants a whiskered kiss on her confident smile, a pleased hum emanating from her throat.

"It's been that way for some time now, Mr. Solomons. Have you not been paying attention?" She asks playfully as she pulls away and turns, looking back at him over her shoulder.

"Ya little minx. Callin' me 'ats gonna make an old man feel some things." He gives a stern brow with his tone, but it covered giving eyes and amused lips she could read better than anyone else.

"You are my old man now." She reaches back for his hand. "You may not be young, but the night is, there's plenty left for both of us to feel lots of things."

———————

He spoke softly in her ear, lips pressed to the soft skin by her sentimental teardrop sapphire earrings that swayed as they pulled into the long drive up to their home. In the darkness, they said very little with words, a closeness that hasn't required them for some time swells and encapsulates them both in the passing moonbeams as they study one another like new lovers. They arrive home late, after their friends and family but they are all smart enough to leave them be after a night like this one. His hands never leave her body, gentle and strong to assist her out of the car, up the stairs and through doors as he acts like a gent and clears a path for her the way to their bedroom.

The newly proclaimed future Mrs. Solomons walked aimlessly as her betrothed started removing layers to achieve the level of comfort he preferred to have in his own quarters. She watches him, a case study of masculine self-assurance with his lean, functional muscles that were never showy and made for and from hard work. With no one to witness, she sips her champagne flute of water and swoons to herself as his face shows an Alfie Solomons only she gets to know. A lack of fine lines of intimidation and anger, a soft fullness to a relaxed mouth that felt no need to mumble and mutter for the sake of making those around him wonder if the visible signs of anger would be lashed out at them next. He was tired, bless him, she knew him well enough to know one eye would close more than the other when he was feeling sleepy. A tell that she believed only she knew of him. Just as she knew he had the tendency to stare over his glasses at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention, a look very similar to sleep but not so, in his blue eyes that she recalled with fondness and no real anxiety now. His eyes give him away every time for her, and it was suited as they were windows to his soul, and they would share one very soon.