"AN: Hello! It's been a while! About 2 years ago, I tried, with disastrous results, to write a sequel to my little fanfiction "The Woes of the Eternally Bored." Many people were kind enough to review it. Lately, however, I've had an idea-to try the sequel again, this time with quite a different plot than what I'd originally intended. So, here we are. As you'll no doubt see, the first few chapters are very similar to the ones I wrote before, but after that there's going to be a definite shift. Anyway, hope you like it, and please do review; I can't get better if you don't!
The Woes of the Infernally Wed
Of course, living with Gwendolyn Sharp was not for the faint of heart.
Like Ignatius Reilly, her being was multi-faceted; there were so many different aspects to the domestic horror that was sharing an apartment with the Sharp chit.
One could always start, of course, with the mundane aspect: that made up of the every day experiences, of her sweaters on the floor ("Sharp, for God's sake, try and pretend to have a little common delicacy") and her hairbrush turning up in unexpected places and the hideous yellow tea cups she bought from the thrift store.
There was the horrible feminine things in my bathroom—who knew even a ragamuffin like Sharp had girlish clutter?—the not infrequent smell of something burning while she "cooked" (if one could call it that). The alarming alterations she'd made to my tiny apartment: the bright new curtains, the colorful dishes, the occasional mug of was the routine of it all: I would wake up. and she would be half-dressed, one leg in her jeans as she stooped to kiss me good morning (Sharp was indubitably a morning person) and then scampered off to the kitchen to scrounge up a bagel for morning sustenance. I would dress, make coffee (Sharp's efforts to encourage me to eat breakfast were in vain), and leave for work. After a day of stultifying boredom, I would return, and she'd already be there, singing along to the radio as she tried (to the best of her negligible abilities) to make dinner. Dinner would happen, and I would read—or try to. Gwendolyn was never one to allow a man too much free time.
"Bernard," she would say, musingly, stretching herself (uninvited, of course) across the sofa with her head in my lap. "I was thinking…"
"Stop the presses," I'd murmur, rolling my eyes and determinedly turning the page of my book. Gwendolyn pinched my leg.
"Don't be a grouch. I was just thinking that if we ever have kids, I want them to have your hair."
I sighed—flushed—didn't look at her.
"We're not having children, so the point is moot."
"But if we did," she persisted, grinning now. (The minx was always so quick to see when she'd discomposed me.) "Just hypothetically. I want at least one to have your hair. You know, all rumpled and perfect and sticky-uppy in the back. Oh, and maybe your voice." She pulled that deadpan face that she'd deluded herself into thinking resembled me and said in a drab monotone:
"Goodnight, Mother."
I kept my mouth very straight; it was, for a moment, almost difficult.
"When are you going to grow up?"
Then there was the emotional aspect—because living with another person was…difficult to become accustomed to. I had never once in my life slept in the same bed with another human being; it was thus difficult, those first few nights, to even get into bed without wild discomfort.
"I suppose you'll want some space when you sleep," she murmured one night early into the marriage. I shifted a shoulder.
"Most probably."
"Mmm," she murmured, somewhat disappointed. "Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to make the most of the time I have."
And she grinned and slipped her arms around my waist until she turned out the lamp.
Yet I did not sleep as well as I'd thought. Though Gwendolyn kept her word and stayed on the other side of the bed, something was amiss.
A few restless nights later, I determined the source of this feeling; it was apprehension.
Some inane, mortifying part of me wanted to be able to feel her, to make sure that she was there.
So when, slipping into bed the next night, she murmured:
"You still want some space?", I could do nothing to stop the curt, reluctant "no." Sharp, oddly enough, made no comment on this sudden change of mind and just curled against me, head on my shoulder.
"You've been tossing and turning the last few nights," she said. "Everything okay?"
I shrugged. Her hair was all over the pillow, and the vanilla scent of it was oddly calming.
"Of course. It's a wonderful life."
She rolled her eyes at me.
"Just making sure. Grouch."
But later that night, when I found myself mumbling her name, she wound both arms around my neck and stroked her fingers along my hairline, whispering.
"Bernard," she murmured. "Bernard, it's alright, okay? It's alright. Shhhhhh."
"Gwen…don't leave," I muttered. "Don't leave."
She burrowed into me, nuzzling my neck and still slowly stroking my hair.
"I won't," she promised. "I won't. Go back to sleep."
And I was the closest I'd ever been to grateful when the minx didn't say a word about it the next morning.
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Then, of course, there was the more—ahem—carnal aspect. The one that involved Sharp and a pronounced lack of clothing…
Her favorite method of attack was that of waiting for me when I got out of the shower, sitting on the stove or the counter or some other article of furniture unsuited to the purpose wearing only a tee shirt, legs dangling over the edge.
"Hullo, Bernard," she'd say. "Help me out of this shirt, would you?"
She was also not above watching me as I dressed in the morning, chewing lightly on her bottom lip and ignoring my caustic remarks about the degenerate state of women these days.
"Oh, be quiet," she laughed one day, as I was pulling on my blazer. "I've seen you gawking while I change. Don't even start."
My face warmed alarmingly from the neck up.
"I certainly was not—"
"Oh, no, not you," said Sharp, wrinkling her nose at me. "Perish the thought."
And I had to be content with giving her a withering look—which she took unblushingly—before turning back to finish dressing.
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We'd been married—oh, the odium of the phrase—for about 6 months when Gwendolyn broached the subject.
"Bernard?" she murmured, traipsing into the den in only a pair of old jeans. I looked up, blushed, swallowed, and frowned all in the space of a few seconds.
"Please clothe yourself."
She laughed.
"Oh, don't be such a stick. I wouldn't complain if you walked around without a shirt."
"In this case, you want more than a shirt."
Gwendolyn stuck out her tongue (puerile minx), perching on my knee and winding her arms around my neck.
"You don't seem to mind terribly," she smiled, rightly interpreting the hitch in my breath at her bare nearness. I narrowed my eyes.
"Did you have a purpose in barging in here, Gwendolyn, or did you just come in to disturb the peace?"
She chuckled, wriggling closer to me.
"Bit of both, I think. I do have a question, though; I don't think you'll like it very much."
I was careful to keep my expression stony.
"Ah."
This was a promising start.
"Bernard," began Sharp, now looking rather solemn and fiddling with my lapels. "I-I was just thinking…when am I going to-to meet your family?"
The blood left my face at an alarming rate; I took care not to look at her.
Not that. Anything but that.
"Never, preferably."
She bit her lip, looking at me in that funny, bothered, thoughtful way of hers. Her brows drew together.
"But…Bernard…I just think…."
"Sharp."
Even Gwendolyn Sharp knew when persistence was futile. She sighed, dropping the subject.
"Alright. Sorry. But, look here," starting to smile again (it was never long with her.) "Finish what you're doing and get ready. We're having dinner with my parents tonight, remember?"
I heaved a deep sigh; dinner with the Sharp progenitors was never high on my list of 'tolerable pastimes.'
"I do seem to recall something along those lines."
"Well, keep it in mind and get dressed; we've got to leave in about an hour, alright?"
And she swung herself jauntily off of my lap, pausing by the doorframe.
"Oh, and Bernard?"
I looked up at her with a half-hearted reluctance; sometimes it was rather more difficult than I liked to admit to be truly annoyed by Gwendolyn.
"What?"
She grinned: the full, 100-watt, sunshiny affair.
"I love you, you dork."