after reading the responses to a white horse, I just doodled this shit down in five minutes.
You wake up, and sort of wonder what is going on.
Your wife is named Hilda. Secretly, you find the name somewhat strange, old, a bit funny perhaps. It sounds like such a royal and classy, and from that, like an old name. It feels like modern day people shouldn't be named as such. Perhaps. But then again, it doesn't matter, it just doesn't really matter, because it fits so well.
That's the other thing that you try to keep as a secret to yourself. Your wife's classy and royal name does indeed fit her. It fits her so well. You may admit to yourself that she's not exactly the cutest thing in the world. You may admit to yourself that she's a bit cold, a bit distanced, and her name, the feeling of her name, is perfect for her. She's not the smartest, your wife isn't the greatest.
But, however there's that "but" there that lurks in your heard and holds you to her, she is worth it. She doesn't smile that much, not anymore, not like she used to, but sometimes, yeah, she does smile, and as she hold your hands and stare into your eyes, and as you stare into hers, you sort of feel that it didn't matter, that it doesn't matter. You don't need a cute wife. You don't need a perky wife, you don't need a smart wife, you don't need the greatest and sexiest wife of all. Admit it, when she smiles, when the clouds part, it's all worth it. You're happy. That's what love was. There wasn't need for any of that. Yeah, that's it, you're happy, and you stare back, kissing her, holding her, and making love to her.
It was all worth it. You go to sleep with her in your arms, both of you sigh a sigh, a sigh of content, of love, of wanting to hold the other as sleep entices and to be there for the other when you wake up.
Strange thing was, she wasn't there when you woke up, and you stare into a beautiful face that you didn't recognize and was clearly not hers. Clearly not Hilda's.
"Heya, love," she remarks, and holds you close.