Pretty

What?

Nothing. He smiles.

I turn back to my glass of wine, tracing the stem with my fingers. The firelight and lamplights have sown it with liquid threads of gold that glimmer uncertainly under my touch. I pretend to concentrate on them as they waver, then turn back, quickly, to catch him again.

What? I try to keep a straight face. I fail. Miserably.

I just like looking at you, he says. You're so pretty.

I turn back to the glass. It's a while before I can manage a response, but I do.

I don't feel pretty today, I say, without looking at him.

Well you should, he says. He puts his head to one side theatrically, narrows his eyes, puts a finger to his lips, then nods to himself.

You should, he says. You're beautiful.

I flinch, and he sees it. He straightens up a little and puts a hand out, close to mine, but not touching. He's watching me closely now.

Hey, he says. Hey. Look at me. What? You don't think you're pretty?

I try to say something, but all that comes out is a grimace. I can't help it. I physically cannot prevent my face from twisting that way. I can't help it. I want to tell him I can't help it.

I'm sorry, is what I say. I'm sorry.

I can't help it.