Sitting back down on the bench, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her letter, finally able to read the words in peace. His words were loving, though perhaps only to her. She did not imagine others could read the letter and see the same endearment within the sentences that she did. But Tom was different, he did not feel or express love in a flowery sort of way. There were no sonnets, no comparison to a summer's day. His love was raw and imperfect, like a precious gem before it was cut for jewelry. He did not hide behind anything, he did not make broad claims and cliched promises.