Fibonnaci’s Wife Figures Out Love

By Hilary Ayshford



We two. 

Together as one. 

Till death us do part. 

Or until one of us has had enough.

Or perhaps we will be the lucky ones who grow together, not apart.

But only if we can learn to tolerate each other’s faults and accept that neither of us is anything like perfect.

So I will not complain when you leave your dirty shirts and socks on the bedroom floor, or put empty bottles back in the fridge, or pick drink-fueled fights over absolutely nothing at all.

And in return you will come to accept that, even though we are a couple, I am not an extension of you; that I am my own person capable of thinking and reasoning for myself and therefore will not always agree with you or take your side if I think you are in the wrong. 

People say that they love each other to the moon and back, but I want to measure our love in parsecs, to feel it streaming out past planets and stars and galaxies, through nebulae, spiraling out to the point where everything began in darkness and emptiness; but wait, no, I don’t want blackness and silence – I want sound and fury, fiery arguments, blinding battles, dazzling displays of reconciliation, and if we are going to implode, let it be with a bang that shakes the universe to its core.

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Hilary Ayshford is a former science journalist and editor living in rural Kent in the UK. She loves all short forms of fiction, and her work has been published by Retreat West, Funny Pearls, Syncopation Literary Journal and Trembling with Fear, among others. She is currently working on a novella-in-flash.

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