Perceived Value

I was mad at him, at first. I thought he had sabotaged any chance I had at love with his letters and his promises and his offers of perfect romance. I thought it was unfair of him to interrupt my relationships by telling me he had more to offer. The boys always got mad, too. They would say, "he's confusing you, he's making me look bad," and various other excuses for everything they lacked. He understood my delight, however, when the item I purchased turned out to have an even smaller package within it. I remarked that I'd been had; I perceived a high value and bought something with more humble contents than I had suspected, but clever marketing intrigues me and I was even more satisfied with a meager amount than if I had received my money's worth. Somehow, by discovering what was inside, its value increased. Last night, the sun didn't want to set. He swithched chairs to block the light from my eyes so that I could look at him directly when he said, "You deserve someone who loves every awful, annoying thing about you." As it turns out, there is no substitute for love. To love a person, a thing, an idea, is to cherish and value its every part - the shiny outside and the bruised inside, as well.