Yellow
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
And they were all yellow
She came in from the rain, wet and bedraggled and typically untidy. I decided not to expend precious energy in a cool remark.
"Hallo!" she said brightly, kissing my cheek. I stood stiffly and bore it; for God's sake. My body, not at all in line with my brain, immediately warmed.
"You're wet."
"And you're a grouch," she countered easily, coming behind me and slipping her arms around my neck. I stiffened, still unused to such close contact.
"I see we're playing a game of stating the obvious."
"I see we are," she said, resting her cheek against my temple. My thoughts became abruptly incoherent; shaking my head, I said in my coldest, driest voice:
"Go away, Sharp. Some of us are busy."
"Busy with what?" queried the minxette, peering over my shoulder to stare at the report I was in the midst of composing. With a martyred sigh, I turned it over, away from prying eyes.
"Go cook dinner or something, Gwendolyn."
"Chauvinist," she retorted, her hands now creeping around to stroke my abdomen. I suddenly found it exceedingly necessary to swallow.
"M-minx."
She laughed—when didn't the little snippet find something to amuse her?—and walked jauntily off, perhaps to procure herself some form of sustenance.
I watched, deep in thought. An odd little thing was Sharp—an odd, infuriating, and often totally useless little thing. And yet…
There was something in her absurdity, something in her ceaseless laughter and uncalled for brightness which was almost—bearable.
Almost. It wasn't as if I found her actually enjoyable. Far from it. She was a meddlesome, nosy, opinionated, stubborn, saucy little piece of work who rarely knew when to speak and when to be silent.
Yet it could not be denied that the contrast of our personalities was, if nothing else, interesting. And she added—something to existence, something of variety, which was in and of itself not—dreadful.
I continued in that same contemplative attitude for several minutes, long after my…wife had grabbed a few food items and retired to the kitchen.
It had struck me, on reflection, that Sharp, in her infinite stubbornness, had a way of bending the laws of the universe.
There was something in her composition which seemed incapable of defeat, or perhaps simply of accepting it—which occasionally amounted to the same thing. It was this same incurable obstinacy which had led to our union, this same bizarre determination which had forced me to acknowledge her in the first place.
There indeed was proof of my theory—I never acknowledged anyone.
Except her.
And then there was the troublesome fact of the—sensations she sometimes elicited, the way she occasionally provoked something akin to surprise, something which might possibly be—the universe was indeed a twisted wench—awe.
With such thoughts in tow, I made my way into the kitchen, sitting and observing her, this little snippet child-woman who had effortlessly made everything I knew and believed blow up in my face. She was at the moment innocently eating dinner, smiling to herself. At once I was on my guard; mischief was afoot.
After several moments, she, noticing my scrutiny, looked up and said, with a rather wary look:
"What are you staring at?"
I simply shrugged.
"Nothing."
She allowed this to pass for the moment, and returned to her food—but a few moments later she was back on the case, saying:
"Why are you staring at me like that? Is there something on my face?"
Again, I shrugged.
"No. I'm just—observing."
She seemed confused.
"Observing what? My eating habits?"
God, women were so dense.
"No. Fascinating as they may be, I am not."
"Then what in hell are you looking at?"
"Nothing of interest, I assure you."
Ungrudgingly, she laughed, and smacked my shoulder lightly.
"You're such a misanthrope. But honestly, why are you are looking at me?"
Hmm. The minx was hard on the trail. It appeared my witty nothings would not appease her. I might have to tell the truth.
Dammit.
"You're—interesting," I said simply, moving one shoulder up and down. "That's all."
Her eyebrows shot up with Sharp-like quickness, and with a startled face she said:
"I am?"
"Yes. You—you're unusual. It's somewhat—"
I searched for a word, one which would both express my meaning and give nothing away. No such word appeared, so I settled for a lesser one.
"Puzzling."
"It is?"
"I seem to hear an echo. Yes, it is. I-I'm not sure what to make of—us sometimes."
She smiled then, that odd, aggravating, understanding smile, and sat very close to me, leaning her tumbled head on my shoulder.
"I love you," she said simply, the top of her head against my neck. I prayed that she didn't hear the thump of my heart.
"I'm rather used to you, I suppose," I murmured, and, awkwardly, leant in and kissed her hair.
She sighed, and curled close to me.
My arm, of its own accord, slipped around her as there, in the half-dark of the cheaply lit room, I smiled and for the moment ceased to ponder.
Your skin, oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
You know, you know I love you so
You know I love you so