‘What do you mean stale?’ Isabella shouted across the bedroom. She emerged from the bathroom, tying up her thick black hair with the ferocity someone might use to load a shotgun. Michael kept his bright, cool eyes on Isabella’s, such a dark brown they nearly looked black against her pupils. He spoke in his slow, measured way, as Isabella changed into scuffy pyjamas, the nice underwear she was planning on wearing, discarded to the en suite floor.
‘Honey-bunny….’ He started, before, with a hiss of breath, Isabella raised an index finger, ‘Don’t you use pet names on me!’
Michael waited a beat, and then continued, ‘It’s not you. I just want to try something new, something different.’
Isabella had been tightly wound, ready to respond to any personal attack, but as usual, Michael’s careful, easy responses disarmed her anger, and left her feeling rather foolish. She moved forward in silence and sat on the edge of their bed. Michael couldn’t help but gaze, even with her hair tied back with a bright purple scrunchie, her usually elaborate makeup removed, and dressed in an old T-shirt and some shorts, she still radiated beauty and warmth.