<span style="color: #FF8000">“Not at all,”</span>Blake answered her, watching her work.  It was moments like this he realised how much he both loved and needed her.  She was always there for him, even if just to mend a little scratch.  For certain, this was just an accident, a messy one, but her quickness to respond to it was telling.  He winced a little when she pulled out a needle-like shard of glass.  He was certain his face looked rather ugly right now, and Cassandra probably thought it was disgusting that his blood was getting on her fingers.  Sometimes, he thought, he didn’t deserve someone so indispensable.  How in the world did she put up with his crap?  How did he ever manage to get her to say ‘yes’?  He was a lucky man for certain.<span style="color: #FF8000">“Alright,” </span>he admitted,<span style="color: #FF8000">“That one did, a bit.”</span><br/><br/>He reminded himself then that their entire relationship stemmed from their ability to help one another out.  The first time he met Cassandra, she was stranded on the side of the motorway with a dog’s dinner for an engine, and no cellphone signal to call for help.  He’d been on his way to an interview for a job at an impounding facility.  Needless to say, he missed the interview, and they never called him back.  It was well worth it, though.  He traded a little work for her number, and it was the best investment he’d ever made, as far as he was concerned.  He didn’t even realise he was smiling when he returned to the present.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8000">“Remember that day I found you like a lost puppy on the motorway,”</span>he chuckled, knowing she would probably ask why he looked so mirthful with blood all over his face,<span style="color: #FF8000">“And I came out of that engine looking like a coal miner?  You were so fussy about cleaning my face.  And here we are.  It’s because I’m so handsome, isn’t it?” </span>He teased, a whimsical squint in his eye.  Never mind that everything else he touched was stamped with an oily fingerprint- she’d made certain his face was squeaky clean.  Blake reached up and brushed some loose glass from his dark hair, collecting it in his hand and adding them to the little red pile Cassandra had already started.<br/><br/>He could sense his wife’s unease, and despite his attempts to lighten the mood, he had a feeling it was stemming from more than just the shattered lamp.  The only reason he could believe that was because he’d been feeling it, too.  That feeling of constantly being watched, even behind the walls of their home, was ever present.  The cats were always there, of course, but this felt like a more intelligent presence.  A malevolent one.  To be perfectly honest, it gave him the willies.  When they returned, he would see the doctor, and then he would see about making the place seem more like home.  The wall murals would have to go.  He’d pick up some primer later.  Maybe build Cass her own studio in the library.  He could expand the workspace in his garage behind the house.  And that extra bedroom could be a nursery, for future use.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Slow down, Martha Stewart,</span>he berated himself.<span style="font-style: italic">Be a man and just paint the damn wall.</span>