"I wish you'd mentioned the dent in my car."
She cleared her throat to dismiss him. He crossed his arms and glared at the back of her head. She reached back a hand to rub the back of her neck. He waited for something more definitive, didn't get it, and stomped out of the room.
She stared at the computer screen to avoid going out into the living room where he waited. It didn't seem to do much good, so she gave up trying to do anything productive.
A muffled thump in the living room let her know he was still waiting. She sighed, clicking aimlessly on the myriad links on his web page.
It wasn't any use avoiding him since he would just huff in bed later. He was one of those individuals to whom huffing seemed to be second nature, particularly when annoyed. She preferred pacing, which, she reflected, bugged him almost as much as his huffing did her. She almost smiled at the thought of pacing instead of lying in bed beside him (huffing). If she didn't like sleep so much she might have tried it, but she did, so she wouldn't--and he would huff regardless.
He'd originally been quite charming, and still could be, when the mood struck him, but lately he'd been rather more sullen and rather less amorous. She didn't mind the lack of amorousness so much as the sullen-ness. It seemed as if his general angriness at the world had been transfered to her. (Goodness knows the plants didn't care.)
He briefly re-appeared at the doorway to indicate he was still indeed around. She could see his reflection in the computer monitor: he glided in, his characteristically quiet footsteps even more so, paused, and again vanished into the living room when he felt he'd made his presence adequately felt. (A vaguely creepy feeling, slightly ameleorated by sullen-ness, and punctuated with a smattering of strong annoyance. Rather like getting glared at by a policeman for not-quite coming to a complete stop at a stop sign, but stopping enough that a ticket isn't appropriate.)
She closed the web browser. She played the cursor across the desktop a few times, attempting to find something worthy of further procrastination. He cleared his throat in the living room. She sighed.
When she walked into the living room he was reading a book. She didn't recognize it at first, then realized it was a picture album. He didn't look up.
She sat on the couch beside him, her knee against his. He glanced up, then back down at the book. He put an arm up on the backrest, inviting her to look with him.
They settled in together, his arm almost--but not quite--around her shoulders, their breathing almost--but not quite--synchronized, understanding--but not quite--each other.