I wonder if Frida believed that look would last forever or if it was good enough to have seen it briefly. Apparently Frida saw that look often, although not necessarily in the eyes of her husband. It was never enough to make her happy for long.
Is it possible to hold on to that memory to renew your feelings when you look over at him, doing that “thing” he does, and resist the urge to question your own sanity? What is the elusive quality that holds some people together while others seem to drift?
Love is merely a madness: and, I tell you, deserves as
as well a dark house and a whip, as madmen do: and the
reason why they are not so punished and cured, is, that
the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too.
(As You Like It, 3.2)