The clanking of metal against metal echoed in the garage, a merry symphony punctuated by the crackling of the radio, resting on the border of a shelf. Charles's leg, peeking from beneath the car, bounced in rhythm as he hummed the tune.

"Everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin' to the jailhouse rock..."

Bolts and screws tinkled, rolling around on the cement floor, as Charles worked, his large hands, surprisingly deft, arranged pieces of the old banger someone had brought him in the morning. He could hear Rob move around him, grumbling about some client who he'd probably been too rough with — yet again — and it made him smile. He saw his heavy work boots stomp around the car, probably searching for some pen to scribble on his notepad.

"Number forty-seven said to number three, 'you're the cutest little jailbird I ever did see.'"

Charles slid from under the rusty heap he was working on, his forearms covered in oil and soot, a gleeful smile on his face.

"Aw Rob, why the long face? We had clients coming in, good honest work for the day. What did you find to complain about this time huh?" He asked, a chuckle escaping him as his colleague rolled his eyes with pure exasperation.

"Nobody ain't ever happy. Always comin' in, sulkin' and rantin'. It has a way of weighing on a man's mind, tell you that." Rob grumbled, his weathered face turning red as he heard the young man snicker.

"Doin' exactly like you, is that what you're sayin' you old goat? I reckon you'd better look at your own backyard first. Maybe these people come in rantin' because you frown all the time."

Rob's eyebrows shot up his forehead and he threw the rag he kept at his hips to clean his fingers at Charles, making him laugh harder. The young man caught the cloth, crumpling it in a tight ball before throwing it back at the man's head. He smiled as Rob sighed, knowing there was no use playing that game because Charles would never let up first. They both turned to look at the clock, hanging on the back wall. Time to go home. A wide smile spread on Charles's face as he wiped his hands on his thighs, gladly walking to the back of the store.

"What's gotten you so jolly? Can't be work, you never complain'." Rob asked, slightly amused by his colleague's enthusiasm as he changed into cleaner, more suitable clothes.

"Going home to the missus, Rob. Ain't nothing better in this whole wide world. In fact, the Lord gave us wives so we could bear to work, ain't it right?" Charles replied, a playful glint in his eyes.

Rob didn't get along with his wife ever since she tried to have him change his blue collar work to take up a white collar job and sit in an office all day long, preaching about it being way safer and paying better. The man rolled his eyes again. He knew just how much love the young man had for his woman, he couldn't blame him for being so overjoyed, but just for good measure, he grumbled: "Here he goes again."

And of course, Charles kept rambling about how amazing his wife was all the way until they went their separate ways, Rob to the bar, Charles, home.

**

Charles pushed the door open with a soft creak. Some music filled the air and he silently made his way in the house, looking for her. He found her in the kitchen, a cute little apron fastened around her waist, a soft love song making her sway. Martha had left some flowers from her garden, they rested on the table, gently arranged by his sweet wife. God, he thought, leaning on the door frame, filling it completely, thank you for the life you've given me, thank you for her, thank you for making me the happiest man alive. He didn't make his presence known, not yet, he wanted to savor this a bit more. She was so perfect, so beautiful, and she was his wife. What more could he ever want?

"Hey darlin', miss me?" He asked, suddenly, laughing slightly as she jolted.

He came up behind her and wrapped his hands around her stomach as he peppered kisses on her neck. She smelled so sweet, and her skin was so soft, he couldn't help but marvel at how good she was for him. Is it even allowed to love that much? he asked himself as he inhaled her, his nose buried in her hair.

"What are we having for dinner, sweetheart? Please don't tell me soup again." He murmured, rocking with her, slowly.