The Face Of A New Portugal

She married a resolute man.  Very austere.  Many disgruntled would-be suitors would say underneath their breath, 'That's what she gets.' 'It's her loss.' 'Serves her right.', because they don't see him as she does.  They see the Republican.  The face of a new Portugal.  They see how he walks, not hand in hand with her, but directing her with a stern hand on the small of her back.  They don't see the kisses that he places on her forehead when he leaves each morning.
They see how the boys follow directly behind him, with the most erect of postures.  Never can one say they've seen them shouting or running around even when surrounded by children who are.
They don't get the intimate moments when he's not in the public eye.  On the evening hours in his slacks and bare feet kicked up, reading the gazette to the children.  The way he intently closes his eyes with that first inhale of a fresh cigar.  They've never seen him passionate, which he often is, either with anger or lust which in either event ultimately has the same effect on her.
He could be a furious man.  Never has he been sentimental but she could live with that.  She'd joke with him in the mornings while he shaves about how he had the mustache of a Republican and how cliche it was for him to have such a mustache. He'd laugh his laugh which was a mono-syllabic grunt the way you think of a sleeping elephant to cough.  That was all she'd get out of him because that's how he'd trained himself.  He believed someone of his stature should never be so compromised as to be doubled over in laughter.  He was very restrained.  When they were young they laughed together.  He'd once said that it was her sense of humor that made him love her above all things.  He didn't have that mustache back then.

From her bath she could reach her pruney foot, dripping all the way, and rub the back of his leg.  He liked that.