From Eden

Tom sat crossed legged in the corner of the room, snickering like a little boy as his girlfriend stripped the sheets to their bed. He had been exiled from stepping beyond the invisible square box that held his form for he was being much more of a nuisance than of help. It had been one of those weekdays that they both had a day off and thus what was a better way to start the day than to change the sheets.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s an unreasonable fear.” He voiced, rolling his head back unable to mask his own laughter.

He found it laughable that she was the current poster girl of heavy metal, constantly clad in the armour of big, bolded headlines on the cover of Revolver with the words “25 Hottest Chicks In Hard Rock”, and that her fear for mascots, that’s right, mascots, was something to argue about. There will always be a constant connotation that attached itself to the women in the industry that does the music she does; that they were strong, independent women that would probably kick the asses of any man that dared to step in their path.

“How is it an unreasonably fear when there is a clear basis for that fear?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, “What is the basis of your fear, then?”

“That they freak me out.” She stated, waving her hands wildly in the air with the covers of his bolster.

Those connotations about her were, to a degree, right. But at this point he’d have to disagree.

“Them freaking you out is not a reasonable basis since it is barely a reason, thus making it an unreasonable fear.”

“Your face is an unreasonable fear.” She grumbled, evidently without a good insult, and trudged out of the room with an armful of dirty covers.

People always thought that they were an unlikely pair. He read Shakespeare in his spare time, and hung out with thespians that he performed with at the The Royal National Theatre. He went to suit and tie parties with champagne, and wine, and ladies that dressed nicely. She, on the other hand, played at festivals and toiled and sweated on stage in front of men that would constantly berate her ability to play the guitar. The parties she attended were in parking lots and the booze they had ranged from Jägers to Pernod’s. The line of men she’d dated prior to him had tattoos for sleeves and rode bikes across the American desert.

The media had a field day when they were first spotted together.

“Hey Maia,” He called, his legs outstretched in front of him as he played with his fingers.

She was bent over the bed, trying to secure its corners thus letting out a muffled, “Yeah?”

“How do you want to be proposed to?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d hinted at marriage. They’d discussed marriage at length throughout the entire two years they’d been together, when they were both drunk enough to know that they wouldn’t go through with it, but not drunk enough to forget the conversation the next morning. Some days he’d just out rightly asked if she wanted to marry him, shooting it out simply like it had been to get an opinion of how she liked the consistency of her soup. There was no longer room to be surprised when he asked questions like this.

“I don’t know,” She muttered, walking over to take the spot next to him on the floor, “Maybe, ya know, by the lake while we’re reading books in the late afternoon.”

He nodded, looking at his hands.

“And then suddenly Ville Valo pops out from a bush and gets down on one knee and literally sweeps me off my feet,” She continued, “Then he slips the ring on my finger and we skip off into the sunset and leave you to ponder about what you’ve done wrong with your life.”

Tom turned his attention to her and sneered, bumping his shoulders with hers gently. Without a word, he got up to retrieve something from their dresser. She noticed that he was struggling with something but he’d slipped the item into his pocket and walked back over before she could assist, claiming his seat next to her once again.

“Do you wanna get married?”

She turned to him and shrugged, “Yeah, why not.”

Tom smiled, fishing the item out of his jeans. She stared at the keychain ring he held between his fingers, not knowing if she was supposed to be underwhelmed or revelling from shock.

“Is this your idea of a proposal?” She asked, chuckling.

He nodded, looking somewhat triumphant, “Yeah.”

“You’re completely shite at this.” She pointed out.

Tom shrugged, “I know. You’d still marry me, though?”

Her eyes travelled from his blue ones to the makeshift ring in his fingers. She pushed her left hand into his, “Make sure it fits.”

He laughed, lacing their fingers together and kissing each of them softly before fitting the ring on her. He wanted to be able to live this sort of life with her, forever. That no matter their social differences, they were able to sit back down on the floor in the corner of the room and laugh it off. He adored the simplicity of their relationship, and the complexity of their feelings for one another.

Tom would propose to her again that afternoon when they’d decided to take a stroll down in the park, properly with a real ring he’d purchased a few weeks back this time. Then, for precaution, he looked over his shoulders to ensure Ville Valo didn’t make a surprise appearance to whisk off with the love of his life.