Copyright© 2011 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
“You seem rather pensive, tonight,” Simon remarked. I was seated at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea by the side of me and about which I’d completely forgotten.
I looked at the scum forming on the top of the tea, “Put the kettle on will you, darling?”
I heard him flick the switch and a moment later the water was roaring as it heated to boiling. He took the cold cup and emptied it down the sink, then produced another of my mugs – this one declared, ‘Trainee Genius’, which I might give to Trish when she’s a little older, she doesn’t drink tea or coffee at the moment—at least not very often, whereas I do. I have my own mugs because unlike the others I don’t like drinking from a thick cup or mug, so I have bone china mugs. Okay, so I’m a cup snob—sue me.
Simon sat opposite me with a glass of Guinness. He sipped his drink and I sipped mine luxuriating for a moment in its reviving qualities. “So are you going to tell me?”
“What’s been on your mind and where you were all day?”
I sighed, “Okay. I went to the university physics department and confused them.”
“I asked them to see if they could measure the energy which comes from me when I heal someone.”
“Was that wise?”
“Look, I’m trying to understand it, and I thought if it was measurable, it could tell me something.”
“Was it and did it?”
“They measured it, but perhaps unsurprisingly, it was paradoxical.”
“Yeah, it changed at different points like microwave energy at one point and then zooming off into ultraviolet wavelengths at another.”
“Were you controlling any of it?”
“A little, they did scans of it and produced these.” I showed him the printouts.
“Is that you behind all this swirling?”
“Yes, they suggested two points of concentration my head and my heart.”
“Hardly surprising is it? I suppose this is it flowing from your hands?”
“I suppose so too, I don’t really know and I don’t think they do either.”
“So is this something new to science?”
“Only insofar as the production site, humans aren’t supposed to be able to do it.”
“Oh I dunno, Mark Cavendish produced a few watts himself this afternoon—he won another stage.”
“Oh bugger, I forgot it was on.”
“There’s probably highlights on the internet somewhere.”
“Yeah, I’ll look tomorrow.”
“I thought you were interested?”
“I am, but this worries me.”
“Why—so, I married an alien—so?”
“Thanks, Simon, you give me so much support.”
“Why do I feel as if you just told me off while appearing not to?”
“Because I did, dumbo.”
“Ah, that would explain it.”
“Jeez,” I sighed.
“It’s a good job you have voice recognition software on your computer.”
“To start with, as far as I know, computers don’t do irony, and it would be a very confused machine, seeing as you rarely say what you mean.”
“I rarely say what I mean? You’re always telling me off for being too direct with people.”
“What is? Now who’s being indirect?”
“You can be too direct with outsiders but frequently talk obliquely to us—here at home.”
“If you didn’t I’d hardly be raising it as an issue would I?”
“I suppose not.”
“So, are you an alien, then?”
“As much as anyone born in Dumfries and raised in Bristol is.”
“Yeah, I suppose that would have an impact—talk about different environs.”
“I don’t think I want to at the moment.”
“Okay—what about these microwaves—can we save on the electricity bills—have you cook the dinner instead? Am I safe—would I get cooked if you got too passionate in bed?” He shook his head, “Nah, you never get that passionate.”
“You never get that passionate. I do all the passion—you lay there like a wet blanket waiting for someone to hang you on the line.”
“I do not, I’m every bit as passionate as you, and I don’t fart and go to sleep afterwards.”
“No, you fall asleep during.”
“How can anyone fall asleep while having six inches...”
“Seven,” he corrected.
“Seven? Have you been doing exercises?”
“No it isn’t, you told me it was six inches long.”
“No I didn’t, it’s seven, always has been—well since I’ve been an adult.”
Of course, I did the worst possible thing, I went and got my sewing basket and a tape measure. “Right let’s sort this now. Here’s seven inches—you aren’t that big, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not going to just stand up for any old measure you know—besides that’s cold and you know as well as I do, cold makes them shrink.”
“If that’s the case how do polar bears, seals and penguins manage to get it on?”
“How do I know, you’re the biologist.”
“True—hmmm—I can’t say I know—don’t get many polar bears in Hampshire.”
“I’ve an idea,” declared Simon, “Let’s go to bed and make mad passionate love and forget about microwaving polar bears with long willies.”
“I wasn’t thinking about such things—but I am now—you are weird, Simon Cameron.”
“I’m weird? Take a look in the mirror Watts. At least I’m not lethal alien.”
“You make me sound like some sort of virus. You’re Scottish born as well.”
“So? I’m a fully paid up porridge eater, not some gone to ground, sleeper variety, like someone we know.”
“Oh yeah, I turn into Robert the Bruce at the stroke of midnight.”
“Ugh—do you? Remind me not to be givin’ you all my passion while you turn into some arachnological fixated bloke—I mean it could get embarrassing.”
“When I was a dormouse fixated one, you coped.”
“Cathy, you were never a bloke—okay—well, except for the purposes of me winning this argument.”
“You can’t win an argument—that’s not allowed.”
“Whenever I wrote down the rules.”
“Yes, here.” I handed him a sheet of paper with some wording I’d got from a birthday card years ago.
He began to read them aloud. “The boss is always right. In the event of any disagreement, rule 1 applies.”
I smirked and he frowned.
“That’s a bit heads you win, tails I lose.”
“Just a bit.”
“Alright, a big bit—so what?”
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