The storm blows out. They can't keep their hands off each other. They hug and kiss and lean on each other. They practically make out at the table. He makes eyes at her and grins secretively. She grins back and looks over at me with glee. They talk about "the bedroom" suggestively. She initiates the talk. He thinks she's "racey". He calls her beautiful. Its over the top, sometimes, but I am happy when the storm is out.
Neither can hear. Conversations are said then repeated, then repeated again, slowly, loudly, exaggerated. Their favorite word is "what?" He barely listens, anyway. His ability to focus is incredible. The world ceases to exist around him. A hurricane could hit and he would read his paper. She plays Nintendo DS. This is their morning routine. This is their time together.
I try to convince them to find things to do together. They are stubborn. They are set in their ways. To refuse is to triumph, a battle won. They have all the time in the world but they spend it together but separate. Each engulfed in their own activity.