They had a silent understanding. To say they grew up in different worlds would be an understatement. The way they processed things, the way they coped, the way they learned to deal with any given situation was so drastically different that people didn’t really think they could meld together. Brian and Irma sometimes wondered if it could work out themselves. But they didn’t discuss it. They didn’t question it. They just followed their instincts as different as they were to see how it played out.
And they often ended up back together.
Irma might be stiff, sore from a day’s work, perhaps stitched up or bleeding a little if someone had dared to cross her or try to tell her what they thought was best which would have inevitably to a fist fight. But at the end of the day, she sat on her end of the couch, feet tucked up under her, leaning quietly into Brian’s side.
Brian’s voice would be rough from a day or so of disuse and he leaned in to tell her that he loved her. She wouldn’t ask what he’d done, because she knew it was probably just sitting quietly, crying a bit when he felt the need, trying to process and plan. She ignored it, did stuff. He dwelled in it and did nothing. But they sat together at the end of the day, bracing each other up, and preparing to face another difficult day tomorrow, differently, but still together.