My husband is a curmudgeon. He grumbles at the frivolous, the purposeless, the lazy.
My husband presents me with a shiny necklace and a string of solar powered LED star lights. The lights flash and flutter when the power is drained, announcing their soon demise. They become most active just before the end. They soak in the sun only so that they can dance again once the darkness closes.
My husband arrives home with the car stereo thumping, blaring out rhythm. He surrounds himself with the noise I think so as to have no other focal point but what is in front of him- the dashboard lights, the linking of the music with the humming of the car, the road home.
My husband finds solace in mathematics, in equations, in the calculus of life. He rages at the stories of humanity, at their histories. He does not understand the repeated mistakes and debacles the tribes unleash upon each other. These things make him despair. He retreats to the sanity of his numbers.
My husband bristles at the pop-based utility of words but quotes movies, cartoons, TV adverts and song bits with frequency. He enjoys the poetry of the absurd but not the ramblings of white neon patsy boys who have shirked of any blister inducing labor.
My husband is bone-tough with hydration of blood flow that goes brittle when left alone.