// a short work of fiction //

via pinterest

The tinny clink of the tea pot lid entered my consciousness, although I had perhaps been aware of her presence before that. I put my head over the newspaper. She was making tea, her movements slow and almost irritable.I wondered if that emphatic bang of the lid had been purposefully to annoy me. Knowing Sylvie, it was most likely. I smile and set the newspaper down.

"Good morning, mon cherie." I said, stretching a little. She smiled back, a small smile but a satisfied one.

"Good morning, Alexandre." She replied, her voice scratchy from sleep and a bit weary besides. How I wish the woman would just once explain, to me at least, what goes on inside that head of hers. We've been married two years next week and I still don't know half of what she means and none of what she thinks. For the past few days, she has been this way- even more quiet and curt than normal. I know better than to let it bother me- I always have. Still, it would be nicer if she would just explain herself. I don't know if she can though, not out loud. It's why she's a writer.
I watch her, her black pajamas clinging to her thin frame. She moves, back and forth, through the almost choreographed motions of her morning ritual. The sunlight coming in was golden new, tinged with the reflected light of the buildings across the way. The brown of her hair and the brown of the tiles on the wall merge into one shade, and she looks so very natural and home-like. It swells my heart a little to see as I sit waiting.

She carries over my tea, sweetened exactly the way I like it. One thing I do know- it is these very little things that, from her, mean quite a lot. When we met, in university,  it was the first inkling I had to knowing she liked me as much I as I(to my own perplexity at the time) liked her. She would do little things, like offer to bring back my library books, or even just sitting with me a lunch. These things would mean nothing from some other girls- from her, they mean everything, for she would not go out of her way for another man than I.

She sits next to me, craning over to look at the headlines. I move the paper over.

"Not much. The world is in the same state as always."

"It is the way of things. Every day different, every day the same. Living, dying, being born and reborn." Was her remark. I agreed even if I didn't quite understand her.

 I should note here that I am an accountant, a man of numbers and symbols, things that do as you ask if you use them wisely and require nothing more than adherence to their rules. The only way I succeeded in literature and philosophy was because Sylvie had helped me. Poetry in particular is beyond me altogether. It is surprising, I suppose, that we should have fallen in love. It is, as she would say, the way of things. She is still quietly scanning the paper. 

"There is a notice of puppies for sale." I mention, as casually as I can. She glances up, a strand of bang hanging over one eye.

"Oh Alex. No puppies, not now." She hates dogs, although she has promised that one day when we find just the right one, I can have it. She herself likes cats, which in turn I have an aversion to. One of each would be perfectly fair. In time.

"They are poodles anyways. I don't want a poodle." I said. A grin splits across her face, showing her fine teeth. 

"Why not, I could see you with a poodle. You can wear my beret."

"Very funny." I applaud, standing up and bringing my cup over to the sink. When I turn, she is watching me, her eyes unusually soft, and with a strange exhausted excitement in them.

"What?" I asked as I go to get dressed. She flushes, her cheeks shining in the morning sun.

"Nothing."

* * *

I dress quickly, realizing that I have lingered too long over the empty words of my paper. I hurry towards the door. Sylvie is waiting by my coat, her arms tightly wrapped around her ribs, pulling her butter yellow bathrobe taut. Her fingers quiver a little. I stop under the coat rack, facing her.

"Sylvie, what is the matter?" I asked. She leans back a little to rest against the wall. Her wide hazel eyes pull me towards her and I kiss her. She laughs a little, her throaty little laugh that only comes from deep inside.

"You're going to be late, Alex." She reminds me.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me why you are acting so strange." I declare. She stares at me for a moment, that strange smile still on her lips. It makes her look girlish, something she usually avoided, and with success. Not this morning. Then she tosses her head, flicking her bang out of her glowing eyes.

"Oh, just... don't bring home lamb for dinner because I can't stomach the smell."

"Alright...?" I trail off, not in the least satisfied. She sighs, a breathy, exasperated, exhilarated little sigh and shrugs her shoulders happily,

"What is your favorite name for a baby? And do you hope it is a boy, or a girl?" 

I will be late to work. Quite late, actually.

* * *
 
xxx I don't even know Is the tense odd? I  probably should know exactly what tense it is but I don't. I wanted to write/post something so I picked that picture and went with it. It's not very Christmas-y, sorry:) I am planning and hoping to get one more Christmas short story done in the next few days. I just need to... start it. xxx