He knows he's a beautiful man.

He knows he's a beautiful man.
You can tell by the way he speaks.

In between every few words, a smile spreads. That stupid sexy grin appears, incongruent to the subject matter falling out of his mouth. He could be talking about water heaters, dust bunnies, washing dishes-- no matter what he has to say, that slyly smug smile comes out to play. His smile says, "Hey world, I'm saying words. Listen to my voice. Look at my face."

And the world obeys.

It can't be denied; his features fall somewhere between that of a classic movie star and a demigod. But why does he have to know that? His eyes sparkle with satisfaction; the apples of his cheeks are raised, always ready to help him grin at the beauty of his existence.

Why does his reaction to everything seem to point your attention back to his striking features? It's intentional. Isn't it? It must be.