Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Another one,” His wife huffed, folding her arms across her chest, leaning against the counter. Her arms were still coated with suds from dunking them in the sink and a half washed plate hung between her fingers, dripping a puddle onto the floor. “Seriously?”

“Aye, seriously.” He plucked the dish, going to work to mop up stray water before letting it lie on the three dollar drying rack they’d picked up when they’d first bought their dingy little home. It rocked before settling aimlessly, water shimmering beneath the flickering kitchen bulb no one had gotten around to changing. She gave him a look and his hands shot up. “What! It’s a good’un!”

“The quality of the picture is not my concern! My concern is that you’re going to overload your poor shop with all of these snapshots! And this is the third wallet I’ve bought you this year! Honestly, I should just get you a binder to keep it all in. That’d at least hold more.”

“I like them in my wallet.”

“You can’t find money anymore.” Another plate was lifted from beneath the bubbles, and she went to work on the last dregs of spaghetti sauce. “Last time we went to the supermarket you had to pull out half our life story to buy the bread.”

“In mah defense, the cashier loved our life story.”

She groaned, and he watches as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “But every time? I’m beginning to think the whole town knows more about us than I do!”

“They think we’re a great couple.”

The picture spins between her fingers restlessly, suds and water pearling against the edges, beginning to soak into the sheen of processed color. Their daughters face flashed morse code before falling to the counter where it stayed face down. “Yeah, but… I mean come on, sweetheart. You know I don’t like my picture taken.”

“I’m well aware.” He snagged the plate from her, sliding the dishrag from his shoulder to furiously dry the thing, spare fingers tapping the rim with a pattern of irritation that she’s heard before when the subject of looks arises. When he leaned past her to settle it onto the drying rack she had to do her best not to close her eyes. Three years of marriage, and still she couldn’t help but breathe in that scent of forest air and patchouli that seemed to follow him round. “For the life’a me, I can’t see why.”

She shrugged. “I dunno… I’m not… pretty enough.” Her sister had never really had that problem, and the christmas cards and family photos lined on the mantle were proof enough. “So… yeah.”

“What? Auch, Marianne!” She rolled her eyes, dunking her hands into the suds, drawing out a mug. #1 Florist! blares cheerfully in a collection of daisies and hyacinths against an obnoxious blue backing, and she can still remember the day that her husband had presented it to her proudly wrapped haphazardly in year old newsprint. “Yee’re beautiful!”

“You’re changing the subject,” she mumbled to the sponge in her fingers. The sponge didn’t have much to say, but was more than happy to take its anger out for her when she assaulted the poor cup, chipped bits catching fibers. 

“An’ yee’r avoiding it!” He leaned in, moving to kiss her brow. She shoved the mug against his chest. He stumbled back with an offended snarl. The spot against his black v-neck was left sudsy, the dark patch blaring, and he glared before putting the mug on the countertop. “C’mon, Marianne!”

She grabbed it back, letting it drop onto the slatted bars. “Pretty or not, you’re still taking too many pictures. And I can’t keep buying you more wallets.”

“Then how am I supposed ta capture all the moments!”

“There’s these amazing inventions I just heard about. I think they’re called eyes.” He swatted at her and she jumped back, face splitting into a grin. “Christmas is coming up! I’ll have to grab you a pair.”

“Oh ha ha.” Reaching over he pinched the photograph, waving it out in front of her. “You are gonna sorely pay for that later.” She shrieked when he caught her lips in a biting kiss, whipping the dish towel towards him and he jumped away with a victorious laugh. “After I put this inta my wallet.”

“You’re going to break another one!” She called after him. 

“Says you!”

Snorting she plunged her hands into the sink for the last time, pulling against the chain and draining the water. It had already gotten dark outside, and from the kitchen window the moon seemed to be content with its place in the sky, shimmering down onto their dinky garden, illuminating the peeled paint of their deck and the smattering of pink toys thrown across grass desperately in need of a trimming. The lemonade stand they’d set up that morning, a pair of cardboard boxes that Bog had practically showered in glitter, still sat lopsided, their flower crowns hanging off of the sign: LIMONEEDE FEEFTEE SENCE.  

He’d left the camera out there somewhere. The tiniest part of her hoped it rained and gave her a reason to never see the damned thing again. The rest of her knew she’d be using the flashlight in the bottom drawer before they headed to bed.

Her hands were pruney and the entire room smelled like the cheap apple dish soap that Bog loved so much -if the world smelled like sour apples, Darling, we’d be better off- and she was pretty sure that Bog’s newest wallet, a gift from her a few months ago after his tattoo parlor had been mentioned in the local paper, was going to split at the seams.

“It fits!” She heard him crow from their bedroom followed by pitched cackles. “Ah told ye it would, wench!” 

She just shook her head, smile fond and warm.

“You’re an idiot!” She casually snapped back.

“Takes one ta know one!”

… God how she loved that man.