She bemoans her weight, lamenting the days when she wore size six and any bathing suit she chose. When she thinks she’s all alone, she runs judgmental fingers across the folds where once was flat expanse of skin. Each new wrinkle is cause for consternation, every white hair something which must be hidden with dye.
He thinks they are beautiful, a testament to life and age and years spent in each other’s company. And when he looks at her smile, instead of crooked teeth, all he sees is the way her face still lights up at the sight of him.