She walked across the dimly lit kitchen to pour herself another cup of coffee. Cream only, to make it less intense – she didn’t like it sweet. She wondered why other people wanted sugary dessert coffee for breakfast; how they could tolerate the stunning first-thing smack to the face of sweetness that she couldn’t.
He continued the argument as he filled his to-go cup. “It’s only logical that it should be that way.” A miniature tornado of steam steam swirled around his hands while he talked.
“Why does everything in life have to be logical?” she asked scornfully. “Where is the room for mystery and magic in your world? It doesn’t always have to make sense.”
He screwed the top onto the portable stainless steel mug, and gathered his things together to leave. The car keys jingled merrily in a way that annoyed her.
“Honey, I work in forensics. Logic and sense catch the bad guys. You want us to catch the bad guys, don’t you? The bad guys don’t believe in magic either. The bad guys want to crush your magic.” He smacked one fist onto the flattened palm of the other hand. He made the fist explode as it hit, fluttering his fingers in the air like fireworks.
Unimpressed by his display of hand magic, she stared at him sullenly, leaning against the sparkling granite countertop.
He smirked at her. “You spent your childhood building little stick and leaf houses for imaginary fairies in the woods, but I played cops and robbers. You want to play with good, but I want to protect good from evil.”
She narrowed her eyes and sighed in frustration. He wasn’t understanding her brain, as usual.
“Maybe the bad guys became bad guys because they didn’t believe in magic and fairies in the woods,” she said. “And maybe everything you see that can be explained by logic and sense wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for magic. Why are we even here? You can’t answer that question with logic and sense. It’s the why that makes everything magic.”
She took a deep breath, and then a sip of the hot coffee, enjoying the way it burned her upper lip. Pain always made her feel alive.
He refused to be baited into further existential discussion. Rolling his eyes skyward, he opened the door to head to the car. The sunrise glowed orange and pink into the kitchen, temporarily setting her thin white nightgown on fire.
“Love you. Have a good day talking to your fairies, dear. Put in a good word for me with the angels.” He closed the door behind himself.
She grabbed the dishtowel from its hanging place, and threw it at the door as hard as she could.