Sing

She sings loud as the warm water lands on her soft shoulders, her hair, her face. She sings tunes he had never heard before. Some in Spanish, some in French, one or two in German or Dutch perhaps. Sometimes the notes envelop him, warm all over like a bed warm hug, sometimes they linger long in the shadows, in the dark corners, brooding, heavy. Sometimes they would float, light, almost silly through the house, for no other reason than fun, These ones made him smile. Always made him feel grateful for everything he has and everything he will have. He sings too, classic rock and roll that always sounds great in his head. And as she has assured him on multiple occasions, sounds less good released into the air. A house can’t have two vocalists he would reassure himself, I mean she’s the artistic, passionate creative one and he, he is what? Good at math? Financially conservative? Above average list maker? Created of plans? Follower of recipes? Flosser? Password archivist? Expiration date believer? God, he thought, when you put it like that…but seriously what? What is he?