They say opposites attract. However, in this instance John Bates couldn't have disagreed with that statement any more.
He remembered Vera. Her eyes were piercing, almost sly. At first, when they had first met when they were both just fourteen, they had lured him, made him curious.
Every feature of her face was defined, her heavy brows, her pointed nose, and her large mouth (which contained a razor-sharp tongue).
Her hair, jet black, glossy and straight, was one of her proudest assets. She's brush it for hours upon hours when they were first wed, staring at her reflection proudly as her hair rippled down her back.
Her voice was sharp, and later on in their marriage whenever he heard her say so much as a word, anger would pulse through his veins. Her accent, a trait he had left behind when they had moved to London, used to arouse him, but soon became a feature of regret. Her accent would always remind him of their childhood in Ireland, make him regret that he ever married her in the first place, make him wonder what other opportunities he could have made for himself if only he hadn't fallen for the woman he came to regard as something of a satanic force.
Her height was demanding of respect; she was almost as tall as he, and he was a rather tall man himself. Her figure was far from dainty. At the start of their marriage he would lust for hours about their activities, think of her body when he was busy or away from her. However, the novelty soon wore off, and he soon had almost no appetite to share the same bed as her, never mind make love to her in it.
Finally, his unhappiness. At first, it had been bliss. She was flirty, fulfilling, still to be explored. However, once he had explored her, he didn't find a heart of gold but a heart of stone. By the time he had returned from South Africa, lame and bitter, he had no interest in her, in hope or in love. He couldn't help but blame her for his misfortune. The final straw came when she admitted to him she had never bore children with him because whilst he was away, fighting for King and country, she became a prostitute, partly to 'satisfy her needs' and partly to make money. She had had her womb removed at some complication and cost on his behalf. It made him feel sick. He could never have children of his own because his wife, whom had sworn herself to him the day they married, had been cavorting with dozens of other men.
He had never met someone who had such a negative effect on him in his life.
Then there was Anna. Her eyes were a greeny-blue shade, not at all piercing or even that memorable. However, they were the kindest, softest eyes he had ever met. They didn't make him curious of her. They made him trust her, and eventually love her.
The features of her face were not defined – they were gentle. Her brows were dainty, her nose was soft and sloping, and her mouth was so delicate, every time they kissed he felt as if he had touched velvet rather than skin.
Her hair wasn't black or glossy, but a warm blonde. It was soft and fine, and she took great care with it, braiding it carefully every night before she slept. Perhaps her care of her hair was the only thing she and Vera had in common.
Her voice was extraordinary, her northern accent always portraying her exact thoughts – forceful when she was determined, hollow when she was upset, husky when she was aroused, bouncy when she was pleased – it comforted him in some way, as he knew it was always honesty with Anna – he could trust her with anything at all.
He always had a thing for her height – what she lacked in stature she made up for in charisma. He also loved holding her, and whenever they embraced he would sometimes dare to move his hands onto her delicate waist, and when they were in private at Downton Abbey and he felt like pushing his luck – sometimes he'd move them even further down. Her figure was slight, small, and whenever he held her it made his heart ache, that someone so delicate and perfect could ever love a man like him.
Finally, his happiness. From the moment they met, he had sensed she was a fine girl. Now they were married, he hated imagining life without her. She cared for him not just as a lover but as a person – he became steadily fond of when she offered to rub liniment on his leg, or when they'd arrive home after a long day at work, sometimes into the early hours of the morning, and she would sit down with him and talk for another few hours about how their day had been. She hated early mornings and practically worshipped sleep, but she had stayed awake all night with him, talking about stupid irrelevant things, telling him her secrets from the past, and doing things every married couple were expected to do. He would awake early sometimes, just a few minutes early, so that he could see her sleeping. It was one of his favourite sights. He remembered on their wedding night, the awkward scenes, how they had slowly put all of their feelings they had built up into an act that had lasted for about twenty minutes. They soon however became completely at ease with each other with every element of married life.
He had never met someone who had such a positive effect on his life.
He snapped back into reality and looked at the small clock that was ticking by his bedside.
2.37 in the morning.
He turned to his left to see his pregnant wife sleeping soundly next to him, her blonde hair masking one side of her face, small, quiet snores escaping from her delicately opened mouth.
He blew out the candle that flickered exhaustedly on his cabinet, moved down into the matress, placed one of his hands on Anna's waist and then closed his eyes.
Smiling, he thanked the Lord that he had found an opposite.
This was a completely random story I did to simply pass the time, but please review all the same!