Mister darling brown eyes is not the darling of this post.
He is not my husband. He is not my Son. He is not even someone I love or have ever loved.
He is where all this started—this Darling Blog of May, and so must his story be told.
Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mister darling brown eyes.
And that fateful night, so many years ago…
It was the end of a very fruitful twelve weeks of acting class and a bunch of us—serious actors in the making— spilled out of the classroom for the final time. We were huddled against the Melbourne cold, stomping along the grey of it all, searching for a place to warm our fingers, a place to hold us while goodbye sank into our aching bones.
So. To the pub it was, then.
We were a mixed bunch. Some of us bright-eyed and fresh-faced (me, nineteen then), others weathered and creased—courtesy, no doubt, of years of face pulling under hot, stage lighting.
Then there was him. Mister darling brown eyes. And mister darling brown eyes…well. He was all the lollypops and rainbows. He was leather jacket and jeans. He was hair like ribbons of dark chocolate fudge.
Eyes so deep they saw right into the guts of whoever they chose. And right now, thanks to the two of us being shoulder to shoulder, those brown eyes chose me.
Mister darling brown eyes. The cosy little corner. The euphoric moment mister darling brown eyes took my quivering hands and declared his undying love for me.
(Cough. No. That’s not what happened.)
In actual fact, mister darling brown eyes gushed about his girlfriend— who was adorable, apparently—and I nodded, smiled and talked about my family, the weather, ice-cream, fluffy ducks. It was, of course, only a matter of time before the topic of conversation turned to something…serious.
‘Are you fan?’ he said.
‘Not so much,’ I said.
And all the crickets sang. And all the angels wept.
‘Never mind,’ said mister darling brown eyes. ‘I can fix that. I’ll recite you a sonnet.’
He went on to explain that Shakespeare is best heard, not read. Shakespeare is rhythm; Shakespeare is dreamy, lilting, song. Mister darling brown eyes lowered his face and smiled, dared me not to be moved by this sonnet of his, dared me not to be changed.
I nodded. (Okay. I may have tilted my head and sighed a little, I can’t be certain.)
‘Go on,’ I whispered. And I leaned back in my seat and proceeded to fall in love with love.
Not with mister darling brown eyes, no.
With Shakespeare, sonnet number 18, to be exact.
So, no. Mister darling brown eyes never did become my husband (which is lucky because I needed that title to give to my gorgeous hubby, Dave.)
Mister darling brown eyes was a gift to me because, without him, I may never have heard about those rough winds that shook Shakespeare’s darling buds of May.
And this, my Darling Blog of May, would be nothing but thirty-one days of blank pages.
Now, where would the darling be in that?