Early in our relationship, I’d tacked a black-and-white photo of Dick on my cubicle wall at work. He’d been teaching me photography. The portrait was a practice shot I’d taken with his Nikon: reclining on the sofa, a white kitten on his chest, his head of wavy greying hair cushioned by the armrest, his dark eyes looking directly at me.
The picture had been up only a week or two when another billing clerk stopped by my desk. “I’d take down that photo if I were you,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s too sexy.”
She didn’t need to elaborate. It was those seductive eyes, their long lashes, the arch of his eyebrows. Often, he’d raise his right brow slightly, which gave his face an air of curiosity or amusement—or, in the photo in question, a come-hither look.
Like the dark-eyed loverman in rocker Chuck Berry’s rowdy song, Dick was my “brown-eyed handsome man.” And he was striking.
Anne-Marie Erickson
Love in the Time of Dementia 