Today is going to be a perfectly normal, utterly mundane day.

I knew when I woke up (for I always wake before he does) that today, like every day for the last ten years, because the sky was a beautiful robin's-egg blue, dotted with a few threatening clouds that would threaten but never release the waiting rain, just like it had been the day before, and the day before that; because the sea was a delicate grey-blue that almost reminded me of England. Not the sea near that place, naturally, but like the sea near where I grew up, the sea of my girlhood. The sky wasn't as beautiful as the deep, deep blue it had been in the Loire river valley, and the sea had been far lovelier out the window of our sun-washed hotel on the Adriatic, but that was what made it so perfect. It was ordinarily beautiful. It was perfectly normal.

I could come to like this anonymous inn in this anonymous Belgian village by the sea, just as I've come to like the inns and hotels and sometimes small bungalows that I have before. When we stay in the bungalows, of course, I sometimes wonder if perhaps, once, here stood a great house with expansive lawns and an army of servants, but I say nothing. I never say anything, not about the time that came before. Not about that place.

But the inn in Belgium, yes. I could come to like it. But, like always, as soon as I think I may come to love it, we move once again. I don't hold it against him. He doesn't like to stay in the same place for so very long.

I would so dearly, dearly love to settle. I wouldn't care where. We could take a townhouse, in some small city on the Continent, or perhaps a country house. I would not honestly care if we lived in a hovel, were we together, and settled, and as happy as we ever shall be. We would have our little routines, just like we do now; we would take our meals exactly on time, we would have our china tea with bread-and-butter and sometimes fruit, just as we do now. Perhaps, perhaps, if it happens soon and I am not so very far past being in my prime for that sort of thing, perhaps we might have the passel of boys that I have always wanted.

But of course we shall not. He doesn't wish to settle. Not now. I think he is afraid that if we stay too long in one place the ghosts shall catch up with us. They always trail us, wherever we go. The longer we stay, the more frequent are his lapses, the times that he shuts me out and must do battle with the past. That is when he must move, and I am bound to follow.

So I rejoice in this ordinary, mundane, normal day. So I rejoice, and I keep those hopes that will only eat at me and fester like a mold, because there is nothing more malignant than an unfulfilled hope, at bay. I rejoice in this ordinary day, because after what we have gone through, don't we deserve a day that is excellently, hope-crushingly, beautifully, mundanely, perfectly ordinary?


AN: ... that was fun, actually. Written in half an hour or so, edited for another ten minutes. I should do this more often.