Love Him in Autumn, the Scenery is Trustworthy.

"Baby," he whispered. "You can look now."

I was right, he was right, everything was as right as it had ever been. My pupils contracted and all the colors through the rain-spotted windshield hit me at once, like the effects of a devilish shot of tequila. My eyes connected the colors together like the rainbow I had never seen, the pompous reds fading into oranges, then brightening into yellows and nestling into a natural sienna brown. Leaves everywhere, swirling with the wind, Mother Nature's ballet. The gracefulness in each leaf's movement was almost unbearable. How I wished I was one of those leaves, a pleasant orange leaf lured off of a maple tree by the hushed undertones of the wind, coiling in the air for an isolated moment until finally brushing the ground and resting before my next flight. The leaves still affixed to the trees looked down hopefully, waiting patiently for their turn to flutter off. I was one of those leaves, watching the others with a sense of longing and anticipation. I too was soon going to fly, though I was a spot afraid of the harsh ground below.

I turned sideways to face him. He was watching me with an expression that I imagined was similar to the expression I bore as I watched the dance through the muting mass of his car. His honest brown eyes were opened and glistened with a hint of pride; You always knew how to get to me, I thought, you always knew it. His forehead was crinkled as he looked up at me over invisible eyeglasses. He was wearing that smile I could never disregard, the striking half-smirk he chose when something was distracting him. I always hoped I was his singular distraction, the reason for that slight almost-grin, every time it graced his face. Although I did not know every answer, I did know one thing. He understood me.

Distracted by his sturdy hand tracing an indiscernible circle near my knee, I tried to pull out words from the bottom of my throat, words that I hoped wouldn't sound too cliché or exceedingly expected.

"Will you dance with me?" I asked.

He laughed knowingly. "Foxtrot or tango?" his words reached out in delicate sarcasm. I hid a smile as best I could. I knew he would understand my ridiculously figurative question. He never did care that my mind worked like an anthology of metaphor-dripping literature.

At the surprise of unexpected tears, I pushed to get words out of my mouth before my humid eyes spilled over. I couldn't muster much.

"Thank you."

Another smile and a pressure painlessly crushing my knee. His kiss assured me that I would never collide with hard ground again.