Right Imperfections |✔ [Book 1 of Runaway Bride Series]

3. Clothes Symbolise Truce

Well, well. What's this?

Oh! DOUBLE UPDATE!! Weehee.

A/N: I don't even know what is it about this picture but it sucked me right in. All of us who write and draw and sing are in a pain of some sort. Like a claw inside of us that's waiting to tear us from within. Yes some us write of perfect joy and some of true loss but all of us have our own unique sadness and weakness. Desires unfulfilled, dreams without reach, loved and lost. It's all a battle of it's own. We suffer and stand up. It's so beautiful - the people we become.
Beauty in pain and Art is true beauty.

But don't worry... Dan and McKenna are still pretty happy (in their own way) until you know what their true loss is.

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Enjoy ^.^
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Dan

She was a fire who could throw a mean right hook and I had a penchant for soft, warm girls who spoke in melodious voices.

This is what hell must look like. If only it wasn't so pretty like my priceless creation.

"What was that for?" I asked her rubbing the spot on my bicep that pulsed with a sharp pain. I'm pretty sure it was a nasty blue with a clot developing underneath.

"For giving me proof for my thesis." She grimaced as if I was the worst possible case study she could have ever found.

I waited for further explanation but she returned to the pillow she'd made of her hands on the counter and placed her chin on it. Maybe she didn't want to share the information with me hence the grimace.

Ok, Princess. I shrugged my shoulders. And returned to the pan to softly toss the peppers.

Maybe she didn't want to share it with people? Maybe she was doing it on something people could steal? I recalled my thesis on economical buildings and easy accessibility - I actually spoke to every single person about it. Constantly looking for ideas and comments.

She was odd. Amusing, yet odd.

I returned to my work and she remained in her spot staring at the flame of the stove as if she was somewhere else. I couldn't stare at her - I wanted to - but couldn't, she was supposed to be married today. She is somebody else's woman.

I opened the refrigerator and quietly thanked Sofia, the old lady in the neighbourhood who always stocked my food supplies and disposed off the ones I didn't use. I was used to coming here once a month to relax and take stock of my life.

I quickly pulled out a sealed plate of boneless chicken and placed it in the oven to thaw. Moving quickly, I sprayed olive oil on the other sizzling pan I'd placed on the stove. As the chicken became tender I soaked it in salt water and tossed them in the olive oil until it was neatly coated and then added asparagus and bell peppers I'd shallow fried earlier to tenderise them together with other ingredients.

"You can cook." She mused and I turned around and saw her try to settle that white cloud underneath her. I don't know what it was but watching her struggle with the wedding dress made her a little endearing.

I hummed a reply reluctantly, afraid that an answer would again start another bout of argument with her. I plated the thin slices of garnished chicken and sprayed a few sauces on it. Then proceeded to remove the salad cooling in the fridge and put both in front of her.