They were never fond of stories. How could they be? They were each in their own little worlds. He grew up on a farm in Texas, exploring acres and acres of seemingly undiscovered land. Every day was a new adventure. Every hour. She grew up in the bustling city with subways and fast walking and loud sounds of cars in the street. Every day had a schedule and a clock.
His and her parents and grandparents alike had told stories, stories about their lives and their loves and their disappointments, but there was so little time to listen. When the man and woman met and were married, they put these stories behind them. She often sat at her desk, blinded by the ever growing pile of paperwork that would take her to yet another pile, and by extension, her next paycheck. He was under no such restrictions of movement, spending his days out in the world discovering what he could find. Every day continued to be a new adventure. Every hour.
The longer she worked, the less he saw her. And the more he traveled, of course, the less she saw him. But whenever he returned home and whenever she left her desk, the two would sit side by side in quiet appreciation of each other’s company.
But then the next day would arrive, and the two would leave each other again in order to pursue the seemingly unattainable goals of what daily life is meant to be. It was only in each other that they received complete comfort, but who would they be if she didn’t work and if he didn’t travel?
It was when old age retired the two that they began to truly settle down. They rested hand-in-hand, the presence of one another an immeasurable relief after the loss of career and adventure. They had children of their own. Their children had children. These children would visit on weekends, and as the man and woman grew older and older, age wearing on body and mind, they told stories. Hundreds of stories about their lives and their loves and their disappointments. The children paid little attention, always checking their schedules, seeking their next adventure.