Twice Shy

09 TWICE SHY

I don't understand how Ilyaz can expect me to take him seriously.

I mean.
It's just.

A pop of laughter bursts in my mouth before I can swallow it.

I woke up this morning after I'd fallen asleep reading on the couch, and squawked to see two strange men in the living room, arms flailing to cover myself but luckily a blanket had found itself over my body. While I stood up, I kept the blanket wrapped around me and almost tripped over it, yelping when Ilyaz caught me and playfully swat my bottom to get me moving.

"Hurry up!" he said cheerfully, and I sadly couldn't help but match his smile with mine.

That was hours ago. Now, we're at our new house in Northumberland, and I'm still deciding what mood I'm supposed to be in. Moving has been a real pain, and I'm avoiding helping as much as possible. First of all, I'm on my period. Second of all, if Ilyaz can buy a house without me, he can move into it without my intervention too. He probably realises this, and so he bites his tongue when I emerge from my fifth ten minute bathroom break to find that he has made yet another daring wardrobe change.

When he sees the evil grin on my face, his expression gets offended and defensive, but I'm not the one held accountable here. He's wearing coveralls out of.. polyester? He's head to toe khaki, and he's wearing dark green boots that perhaps weigh an exaggerated amount.

I don't remember the last time he shaved, and his neatly grown five o clock shadow is now outrageous. I can tell he's going for the vigorous jack of all trades look, but he looks like a Ghostbusters twink instead.

He's trying to fight his genes so badly, bless him.

No matter how much he tries to fight it, Ilyaz was bred to hold balls at Versailles and Pemberley. The architecture of his face is aristocratic, like pretty angel boys. Which is entirely deceiving given his wicked traits.

It's especially intriguing when he smiles, skin tightly stretching over sharp cheekbones with hollows carved underneath, making him look like he's perpetually sucking his cheeks in. It's a prissy kind, that says drape me over with silk to contemplate ennui.

I imagine him cutting trees into logs in a forest, and choke.

Rugged, my husband is not.

"Are you my husband's long lost evil twin?" I ask, "Or actually, my husband is that, thus you must be the good one?"
He scowls.
I try not to laugh, "Seriously, why are you dressed like that?"
"Shh," he stands up, glancing behind me where the men are loading in our furniture. Then it clicks.
"Oh! You're trying to impress the m—" my words are muffled in when he abruptly places his hand over my mouth. His eyes are alarmed and embarrassed, as he brows furrow pleadingly.

I don't think he notices how close he is in the middle of his quarter life angst and torment, and currently I'm noticing too much of it, and reminiscing the outcomes of our proximity during our better days.  Before my mind sails off towards an entirely opposite wind, I bite his hand.

"Ow!" He snatches his hand back, wafting his hand, "What is wrong with you, woman?"

"You." He glares, "You're what's wrong with me."

He stalks off with loud and exaggerated steps, which makes me feel pretty satisfied.

When one of the movers clomp in my direction, I rethink my hide out strategy. The air is humid, buzzing with testosterone, and I'm parched for a hint of it. Have I mentioned how distracting it is to watch men do physical labour right in front of you? I think I finally understand the lady that got bagged by the handyman.