i just realised how different we are today, elrond and i. it's wierd, really. i mean, i've been living with him for what, two hundred human years now right? you'd think i'd have noticed sooner. and maybe i have, i've just never let it bother me before. but i'm lonely.

we love each other, we do. i know we do. but i dont feel it, and i'm starting to wonder if he doesnt feel it too. we're too different. what is my way of showing it just isnt his, and what is my needs isnt what is his either.

he gets me things... i think... not often, but big things. well, okay, pretty often. but i think they mean a lot to him, but i think that on hindsight, because i dont think the same way. he gives me good presents, big expensive presents every now and then. it's his way of loving me, i think, keeping his eyes and ears open for that special something that he knows would give me joy.

with me it's different. i dont give him impressive stuff. i dont see the pont. why should i, when i'm giving him everything every single waking moment? the slice of cake i cut for him, that's a gift. i know he likes the flavour. the thin paper netting i serve it on, that's a gift too. when placed on a black japanese plate, it brings out the colour of the cream. the rose i place across the tray, that too is a gift from my heart. does he see it? now that i make myself wonder, i dont think so. to him it's just part of his dessert, something that mysteriously appears from the depths of the kitchens and onto the table. something he would eat without noticing. he does not know how carefully i have instructed it to be served, how thick the slice, how heavy the icing. it is a different world to him, one that he is severed from.

as is everything i do for him. every morning after i shampoo my hair, i coat it with Pro-V to make it soft and shiny. i know he likes it that way, clean and fresh smelling every time he runs his hand through it, so i make the effort. if i were living alone, i'd probably only wash my hair once or twice a week. elvish hair does not need so much care naturally. but he likes it that way, so i make the effort. does he realise? i think not.

i dont mean to sound embittered. reading this, writing this, i know i sound bitter. but i'm not, just sad. just quietly sad, that he doesnt notice what i do for him. and it makes me even sadder to think that i probably dont notice what he does for me as well. it's like we're speaking in a differnt language, knowing just enough to understand another's words but not the meaning of their hearts.

just like the sprig of flowers i place by his bedside, or the silly keychains i get from the deaf. or the feather bookmarks, or leaves, or pinecones, or even a spring roll from a Chinese restaurant, all the little things i bring back after a day out with the gang. all the things that reminded me of him while we were apart. all the things i thought he might like, or that i liked and wanted to share with him.

the cup of coffee i bring him when he has his late nights? i grind the beans myself, and stand by as it brews so the flavour is only just right. it's not that i dont trust the kitchen staff. i do. but i want to do this myself, to prepare it for him with my own two hands. it's just that i want it just right. i want it perfect for him. i wouldnt do that for anyone else, not even me. but he's worth that extra effort.

so you see i love him. i really do. but i cant show him in this way, because he doesnt see. and yet still i do it, because it is in my bones and i cannot fight that instinct.

but even in my other ways, the ways i show him, it's wrong. he wants me to say it. ai, elbereth, how can i say "i love you" ten thousand times a day, until my brains swirl within me and the words dribble out through my ears, all lies, all like vegetables boiled for too long, until all the truth, all the flavour has gone. i say it in here, in my heart, where it will never dissolve, where it will always stay pure and true.

sometimes the words will swell in my chest and burst forth from my throat, and he would smile when he hears it. so happy. but then i feel guilty that i can only give him this joy sometimes, not often. not as often as he likes, for fear it might turn into a lie.

i think of him always though. and i get a tangible pleasure from being near him. i dont know if he feels the same way-- he certainly isnt hald as clingy or demonstrative as i am. in fact, sometimes he looks awkard or embaressed by all the attention. and then i feel guilty for showing that i care.

but sometimes... when i am in the mood for something extra, something special, when i want to spend some time with him... we have different ideas of romantic. actually, i dont even know what is romantic for him. conventional stuff, i would assume, the candles and flowers and sunset strolls. or maybe it's rain, maybe he finds rain romantic, that's why he drags me out in the most dismal of weather. i try to appreciate it, for his sake. i want to take an interest in his interests.

but that isnt my idea of romantic. okay, i admit, not many people can refuse a quiet evening in front of the fireplace, but even that's just... nice... it doesnt give me that thrill. what i want... what i really truly want is to dance with him. to bring him to a bar and dance with him. to let the siren call of the music seep into our souls as we dance, our bodies pressed together... or to a bash, and feel the energy and thrill as we gyrate to the music. linked, bound as a dance couple. or even... or maybe especially a concert. an outdoor concert.

can you even imagine the thrill of kissing your husband in a seething mass of millions, all busy, dancing, all caught up in the moment, all caught up in the song? can you imgine him touching you? the both of you entwined in each others arms, lost in the magic of each others eyes? i can. i do. i want that. i crave that. i desire that so much. every time i see an ad on the telly advertizing a bash or a concert, i imagine myself there with him, connecting on that other level of erotica.. just... dancing... just feeling...caught up in the sensuality of it all.