Death and Tea at Three

7 Harold and His First Home

His hands were a lot smoother then, and his long, elegant fingers seemed perfectly fit for his piano. His hands didn't hurt him then like they did now. There were no aches or pains. No wrinkles or scars. His hands were fresh - full of life and potential.

His body was much leaner and more athletic. Harold was not particularly good at sports, but his body suggested otherwise. Harold carried box after box into the house. With every box he set down, the more comfortable he became in his new surroundings. It was his first, and unbeknownst to him, only time owning a home. The whole idea of owning his own home, of having such responsibility, terrified him. After all, there were few things he could commit to in his life, and he was not confident that managing a household was one of them.

While his fears were never fully alleviated, he was forced to manage them. And that force strode into the new home carrying nothing but a lamp. "I'm exhausted. I can't wait for this to be done so I can start decorating," Julia said.

Harold looked at Julia and then down at the many boxes that he had carried in. "You're tired? Look at all this," Harold gestured toward the piles on the floor. "These hands aren't meant for lifting. These hands are the hands of an artist."

Julia raised an eyebrow as she shook her head dismissively. "And these hands are for healing. How could I help my patients if I damage myself carrying boxes? I mean, Harold, honestly, think about the children," she said and stuck out her tongue.

Harold had a hard time staying upset at Julia. Whenever she gave him that cheeky smile, he felt comforted. As if any problem he faced - even the looming and ever-present thought of one's mortality - ceased to exist when Julia smiled.

Julia looked around the room. Her dark brown hair shimmered even in the poor lighting of the damaged home. With her hands on her hips, she turned around, gazing at her surroundings.

The only thing Harold loved more than her smile was her eyes. Her piercing brown eyes had a way that looked both at you and within you at the very same time. Harold could stare at those eyes all day. Her eyes told stories, and he wanted to learn them all.

Julia continued to circulate around the room, her usual grin transforming into a wide smile. "It's beautiful, isn't it," she said, her head tilted up toward the ceiling. "Can't you just see it?"

This was all a bit confusing for Harold. The place, in his mind, was a dump. The walls were chipped, and the entire thing was in dire need of a cleaning. On top of all this, the bloody place had no air conditioning. Harold was sure he would suffocate before they managed to fix any of it.

Harold walked over to stand beside Julia, and he too looked up, but of course, he saw nothing new. He looked back at Julia, who was still staring, her eyes marvelling at nothingness. Harold took another look, "Ah, I see it."

"You do? Oh, I knew you would, I just can't wait..."

"Yeah, I can see even more cracks in the walls that need to be filled, and don't even get me started on the baseboards," Harold said cheekily.

Julia nudged him in the shoulder, far harder than he expected. Harold always expected her nudges to be weaker than they were. Her strength was deceptive behind her slight frame.

"Honestly, I don't see it. I'm trying, but I don't know what it is you see."

Julia's lip crinkled as she bit the corner. Her cheeky grin had returned, and her eyes were now fixated upon Harold. "You really don't see it?"

The room was bare, save the many boxes that Harold had just brought in. The walls were bland, the place was dirty, and the floors needed a good scrubbing. He spun around, wondering if he had missed something. He looked down at the rough, green carpet which lay before him. "I can see that we might have made a terrible mistake," Harold said with a smirk. Just as the words left his mouth, he felt another nudge on his shoulder.

"There's potential here," Julia finally said, as she spread out her arms, gesticulating toward the wall as if it were a canvas.

Harold sighed slightly annoyed with the comment. "Well, this 'potential' is a lot of work. I'm starting to think it's not worth it," he said.

"I thought the same thing when I first met you," Julia smirked at Harold, who was staring back with his arms crossed. Julia lowered her head, as she walked over to him.

"I don't like this potential crap. I prefer the finished product," Harold said, as he lowered his head and kissed Julia.

A grin appeared across Julia's face. It wasn't her usual smirk, but one of satisfaction. She placed an arm around Harold's waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Don't worry so much. I'll take this one," she said. It was a line Harold had heard before, and it was a line he knew he would hear many times after.

Over the next few years, the ruddy house began to transform. Walls were removed, and the remainder were painted white, save one wall which was painted a deep green. Julia had called it sage, but Harold refused to do so out of principle.

The rooms were filled with interesting artifacts, maps, and pictures that represented their personalities. For Julia, there was an impressionist painting that she hung in the kitchen. She said it added character to the room. For Harold, she had hung a photo of Old Trafford. At first, Julia was opposed to the idea, but Harold pointed out that he didn't quite like the art she had chosen for the kitchen, and like all things in marriage, compromises were made.

Above the couch in the living room hung an old map of the world. This was for neither Harold nor Julia, but rather it was a wish. Neither of them had travelled farther than four hours out of the city, and the rustic map that hung above the couch represented hope – that one day, they might see it all.

Julia continued to touch up the house throughout the years. Her designs were considered edgy and weird to many, but Julia thought her minimalistic, artsy designs were simply ahead of her time. Harold didn't understand any of it. However, despite Harold's reservations, the house quickly began to feel like a home. While many would consider themselves lucky to have a home with so many interesting and beautiful things, the only beautiful thing Harold ever needed was the woman whose eyes told a million stories, and whose grin left all of it a mystery.