Unique affection

Today, in amongst the cans of soup and tuna and salmon and sauces, I found a hidden stockpile of Alphagetti.

Sometimes soft moments find you in the oddest of places.
...

It was the thumbprints of human imperfection that used to move him, the flaws in the design: the lopsided smile, the wart next to the navel, the mole, the bruise. These were the places he'd single out, putting his mouth on them. Was it consolation he'd had in mind, kissing the wound to make it better? There was always an element of melancholy involved in sex. After his indescrimintate adolescence he'd preferred sad women, delicate and breakable, women who'd been messed up and who needed him. He'd liked to comfort them, stroke them gently at first, reassure them. Make them happier, if only for a moment.

        --Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood

For me, it's the mole next to the nose that catches my eye, the inexplicable scars that crisscross the skin, the feel of the coarse hair against my fingers, the smell that cannot be called anything else but scent. These qualities are what attract; what make a man my own.

When faced with his melancholy, my instinct is also to comfort and gently reassure. I am happier if he is happier--even for that moment. But if my instinct is resisted or denied, then I have no choice but to follow deeper into the despondency. That is what makes things so complicated.