Writing: Stephen and Amy.

Here's a random little snippet I wrote:

When Stephen got home he was greeted by his wife, Amy, staring intently at the morning’s paper. As he approached, she gave him a weak smile and he realized she was reading the obituaries. He instinctively looked down at his hands. She was reading about Melba Gould’s death. He stood up straight and stared at her, trying to detect her facial expression until she asked him to sit and stop staring at her; their usual routine. He cracked some joke in his raspy voice to break the tension and let her tell him that their neighbor was dead. He let her wonder, in her naïve way, what had happened to her. He added his own conspiracy theories in with hers that she took to be more valuable than her own, considering he was a forensic analyst and solved crimes for a living. She always took what he said with great weight, many people did; it’s hard to dismiss the confident words of a guy of his height and weight. He eyed Amy’s small stature and watery green eyes, shaded by her ash blonde hair. She was pretty but she wasn’t beautiful like Gazelle. Gazelle could meet his one sharp green eye and his one black eye with her own confident golden-brown eyes. She could grace his olive toned, clean shaven face and his brown fuzzy hair with the tips of her red manicured finger nails without a lacing of apologetic unease like Amy would.

 

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Sincerely, Ella