XLIV. Flannel Frustration

The Little Martian feels the first simmer of irritation upon his pond of Irish tranquility.

He fills with irritation, tiny flecks of annoyance lapping like cold wind against his frosty flushed cheeks.

He turns pale and red, tired and grumpy, in need of a nap and a litre of coffee.

he grumbles and stumbles into bed , wraps himself in flannel and vows to disappear from the world for a day or two.

I throw a roll of toilet paper on his head and his angry eyes dart, ready to unload their frustration on a comfortable target.

I am faster, i envelop him in a hug, i know him better than i know myself.

“It's not always rainbows and paradise, it's compromise that moves things along,” I tell him

The Little Martian widens his eyes and they take on a beatific , poetic sheen “Where is that from? “

“Maroon 5 “ I grin back

He snorts and softens.