/disclaimer/:: sans ownage

/title/:: i was not magnificent

/summary/:: There is a man who walks every day to sit with his wife. — GaLe

They say The Years are measured in how much shit you retain. Gazille has never really cared about all that live-life-to-the-fullest shit. Too many people have opinions on how to do it, and hell if anyone tells him what he should and shouldn't do.

"Keep the change," he mutters, like every other day, snatching the lone sun flower up from the counter and turning his back to the fond, assuming stare of the shop keep.

Pieces of ashy, brittle hair cover his head, giving him the likeness of a weathered wolf prowling the market in search of prey. His eyes are the sole indication he has kept the things he's been taught through whatever portion of The Years he's open to discuss. They are brick; worn as charming buildings in unwelcoming parts of town, a pleasant surprise once you're there anyway.

The book under his arm is gripped carefully. When he reads, he never bends the pages, never underlines things. When he reads at all, anyway. That's something he gives credit to The Years. The Years gave him things he never thought he'd really need to give anyone credit for.

Cracked, hardened leather boots ignore the mud, last night's storm making the plants look a little less dredge. The place is beyond a crumbling stone archway and weedy, tired dirt walk ways, beyond quaint and comfortable, and yet this is where he is lightest.

Early morning sun hits stone, clean cut beams sheering through groggy air and giving her the halo he knows she's got where she is. Wherever the hell she is. Maybe she's the sun now. That would make sense.

"You look good in that, shrimp," he murmurs gruffly, setting the flower beside the others and squatting to sit beside the grave. He opens the book cover and flips pages with a gentle thumb.

"We left off at a good place..."

end.