Work Text:
I have a system that works. Sometimes, that system winds up with me standing idly in the middle of a Sam's Club parking lot located in Maine. During a blizzard. It's okay though, I'm used to it. I'm from North Dakota. Other times it winds me up here. In the Reden household. On a Tuesday evening. What? You're here too, under this couch just like I am, don't get snarky on me now. Morally, you and I, we're one and the same.
As a housekeeping reminder, Bibi Reden has both a glock and applies the definition of "trespassing" with extraordinary creative license. Adjust your priors accordingly.
Bibi, whom I presume to be confecting the usual dinnertime niceties at the moment, is mildly content. I say mildly because thirty minutes ago, Amy tripped over her own foot-- for the fourth time today, mind you-- while getting water. Bibi's socks got sopping wet. Nothing else. Just the socks. I have no idea how this is possible.
"Amy," Bibi chirped to her wife, half-knowing the response, half doing it anyway.
Amy, mind you, is occupying about twenty-five percent of a recliner designed for one. I know this because it was on their wedding registry. Don't ask me how, I got this, but I have a laminated copy if you'd like one. Made it last night. Regardless, the "one" in question is either a progeny of Paul Bunyan or an entire mid-sized American automobile. On four hundred and twenty-seven separate occasions, this recliner has comfortably situated two lazy wives with enough room for an imaginary clowder and each feline's respective litters. More than fifty percent of these domestic catharses consist of Bibi lounging in some anatomically taxing position that most certainly cannot be comfortable, and Amy sitting criss-crossed, back tentatively upright, reading. I will call it "reading" because Amy would want that and I am not a biased votary of this domicile.
"mm," Spiritually, Amy is on Pluto right now. Back here on Earth, she's zoning out on the ceiling. There is not a single complete thought in that cranium. Period.
"Amy."
"mm"
"Amy darling, what are you doing?" The self-appointed queen of the condominium remarked, regally pussyfooting across her domain. She looked at Amy. And she looked at Amy. And she looked at Amy. Amy eventually recalibrated. Her consciousness returned from what would take NASA nine years, a once-a-decade gravitational slingshot from Jupiter, and another space probe. Call it Amy's Horizons. I've thought about this more than I should.
"mm, oh! nothing much."
Bibi looked at the ceiling, trying to deduce what was so interesting about a smooth, white ceiling.
Nothing of interest. Not even a speck.
Concomitance.
Bibi sauntered back to the kitchen, standing akimbo at the window. Genuinely, what is Bibi concocting? Can you see from here? Is that curry? It is? Okay, thank goodness. I knew my data wasn't wrong. Bibi always makes katsu curry for Amy every Tuesday. It's their favorite meal. Mostly Bibi's. Amy picks out the onions.
Oh, she's plating!
Looks like the plate Camilla bought them as a wedding gift. It has two kissing rabbits on it. It came with no silverware. I find this to be extremely humorous and somewhat sad. I think about this more than I should. There's a motif of some certain genus here.
"Bibi," Amy trailed, sniffling. "You're sho amazing!"
Amy had a smile larger than Jupiter, a mouth full of food, and a tear streaking down her cheek from the meal's culinary caliber. She has zero awareness of how she looks right now.
Bibi must have left a few julienned onions uncooked.
Give me a second.
Okay.
Amy is beaming. Unequivocally, incontrovertibly beaming.
Give me a second. Sorry.
Okay, okay, I can do this.
Bibi slung her arms around her wife. Despite being the same height, the juxtaposition of their muscularities made Bibi look maternal in that particular moment. Amy, for reasons you already know from the textbook, cherished this maternal feeling. Bibi too. You could see the supernovae in Bibi's irises. Ten thousand hours into their marriage. Assuming average life expectancy for a female resident of Maine-- don't give me that disapproving look now, I already ran the numbers-- four hundred ninety-six thousand six hundred ninety-two hours left. Roughly fifty more ten-thousand hour periods. This makes me more sad than happy, and I have thought about this way more than I should. Let's not make this a motif.
Anyways. I hear noises indicative of our cue to let them have some privacy. Some things aren't for you or me. Also, I brought a thermos. Care for a cup? It's Swiss Miss. With marshmallows! Here, here, try it.
It's Fourth of July somewhere, or so I'd like to think. Right now, it's in the Reden household. And on Pluto, I'm most definitely certain that Amy's setting off fireworks.