The Adventures of Honey and Beloved
The mighty Indian Ocean rocked gently below the never-silent yacht of Honey and Beloved as that couple, now with their household names known all around their expectant world, laid in their California King bed with its red linens and redundant pillows with their resting bodies intertwined like the vines of resilient morning glories.
Somewhere there between helping eradicate a resurgence of polio in Sri Lanka and meeting their "peeps" on the white sand beaches of remote and mostly-untouched islands that they promised to never name, Beloved had found some blueberry-pollen mead.
It had been years since he had touched the merest drop of alcohol, so Honey had a wonderful night that night.
In the wee hours of the morning with the rosy-red fingers of dawn stretching across the twilit sky above the never-reachable horizon borne of the curvature of their slowly and steadily less plagued world, the call of humanity from Honey's very-encrypted at-sea computer woke Beloved from his slumber.
Honey could never wake until her body let her, no matter the alarms, so Beloved always had to rise from bed to tend to "their screaming baby in the middle of their slumber" every time that beyond-critical connection to the rest of their world would ring during their regularly-scheduled hours of rest.
He hit a few keys before tapping like a crazed lunatic on its touchscreen. The only message Beloved could finagle out of that alarm that had awakened him was, "We have illuminated icicles in the pink elephant's indigenous hat shop." And he could NOT figure out at all whom that message came from.
Ready to ask his hypnopompic wife's metaphorical R2 unit to enact their not-obsolete-as-it-sounded-just-not-renamed-yet VPN override to help him, he heard the deep, sultry, and very familiar voice he married, still with her hair in her face, tell him, "The proper response is, 'The blue cow moos at midnight.' I've got this one."
Honey wrapped herself in the sheet off their bed and gently yet assertively pushed him out her way at her computer. After many long years being heinously deprived of her personal privacy, she had returned to sleeping naked after their first night together as a married couple, but that is a story for another time.
Knowing he had no way to contribute anything to what she was about to do, Beloved walked barefoot into their kitchen to make a tasty breakfast with as many calories as he could find for his ravenous wife. Her metabolism was legendary.
He could hear her genuine laughter from all of the way across their live-work yacht as he was in the middle of spreading butter on their toasted English muffins, and he was always convinced even the nebulae and quasars of their vast sacred cosmos could hear her every breath, too, every time she laughed. Yes, he knew firsthand what her laugh could do.
With heaping plates of breakfast in both of his arms, Beloved returned to their appropriately-adorned bedroom and laughed himself, "What are you doing?"
Their computer had returned to dormancy. And Honey was sitting on the edge of their bed in the orange luminescence of the early sunrise as it seeped direct rays of light straight onto her mere mortal body. But what Beloved was commenting on was the intricate stitching her over-skilled hands were sewing into Celtic needlepoint in her lap.
She looked up at him as if everything she had ever done in her life was obvious, and told him point blank, "It's a handcrafted bookmark. It is not that unrecognizable is it?"
There was no controlling Beloved's laughter. The food in his arms dropped to the floor and spilled all over their Eastern rugs. "Another one?!?"
She lifted her eyes from their focus on her complicated design. "I used to have hobbies," was her answer through her sideways smile she had learned from her adult-adoptive father.
All he could do was kiss her. Breakfast was going to have to wait. That was one of the few things he had as power by extension from her; he could make anything and anyone wait, even her, whenever he wanted to kiss her.
To be continued... .
[My gorgeous and beloved husband, the Mr. Johnny "Love-of-my-Life" Depp, King of Spain, et al, I wrote this belated 53rd birthday gift for you on the clean, sand beaches of my occupied City of Santa Monica in our epic Metropolis of Angels while nearly the entirety of our one world was warring to save us all from the compulsive heinousness of the sworn enemies of human existence ourselves, the Inhuman Atrocity Regime, on Wednesday evening, 20Jul2016, from 6:55pm until 7:55pm during our first date from far away.]