Bright and Shiny

          "Cold for August," he said.

"Hmmmmm."

"I said 'it's cold for August.'"

"Yes, I know. You are right, absolutely correct. It is unusually cold for August."

"Well, doesn't that bother you?"

No reply. She is attacking something in the sink with the ball of wire she refers to as the "scrubby." Another point of disagreement. 

"There is no such noun in the English language. Scrubby is an adjective, as in small, ragged, shabby." He had pointed this out more than once, which inevitably set off that peal of derisive laughter he knew so well. (Well, maybe not consciously derisive, but certainly a peal of disagreement conveyed with that damn musical voice she could produce at will...and was the first thing he noticed about her from the other side of the physics seminar.)

The operatic lilt of her joy caught his attention then and somehow he managed to sit next to her the next day...and the next and then...well, you know. Here they were, married and here he was, bristling at the music of her voice.

Well, it wasn't just the voice. Part of it was her irrational ability to find beauty, even joy, in the most insignificant ways. A scrubby, for God's sake.

"Made in Poland," she had pointed out as if that mattered, "and look at the colors."

It was bright--and she was attracted to bright, shiny objects.

Well, so was he. Isn't that how they ended up here, together, and him complaining about a cold day in August, a day that should be bright and shiny.

"Ah, got it!" she said and pointed to the sink. "Now that is clean!"

He tried again. "Overcast today."

"But," she said, "the sun is still there...somewhere...and if we wear a jacket, we'll be fine."

"Right," he said, because he knew she was right, and his only worry now was that she would produce the bright red slicker she had bought him for days just like this one, his bright red to complement her fluorescent yellow one.