Some days his wife's hair was her usual short haircut, but in others it was much longer.
Nozomu could easily tangle his long pale fingers around dark locks – and strangely, blond locks at times – of his wife's hair while in other days her short strands wouldn't go as far as her shoulders.
Some days her eyes were that mesmerizing emerald tone that left him breathless and in other days they were dark brown. But Nozomu accepted it; he understood it.
Some days he would wake up to the sight of snowy white skin and some days her skin heavily contrasted his own pale one. Some days his wife was almost as tall as he was and at others she barely reached his shoulders. Some days she would act strictly and controlling and other days she would act kindly and loving.
The one thing that never changed was her positive attitude and that characteristic bright smile that could easily compete – and win – with the blazing sun.
Nozomu felt a thrill whenever his wife would proclaim her over-the-top theories opposing his own depressive ones. Even the most ridiculous stories and affirmations gave him a sense of nostalgia, no matter how much he would hide them during his famous monologues over despair.
Just to be able to hear her nonsensical comments – while he blissfully ignored the differences in pitch and even gender in the voice – in opposition to his own brought a feeling of safety and joy only Kafuka could ever bring him.
Like many strange occurrences that happened to him ever since he was born, Nozomu didn't really expect to have a traditional wedding. In fact, he had the same marriage ceremony countless times, just as he had the same honeymoon to a point it could easily be a déjà vu. Only some details, such as his wife's breast size and height made him wonder. But soon enough she would say something hilariously silly, in her true fashion, and Nozomu would easily set his troubles to rest.
Nozomi, a small and eager young girl who was the exact copy of her mother; Hope, a blue-eyed blond who sported the same haircut as his mother; Nozomu, his father's namesake and still a baby, was the only child who bore more of a resemblance to the island's teacher. Strangely enough, the ever so depressive man would sometimes forget about his other children. To him, all the girls were like Nozomi and all the boys would surely be like Nozomu. They were the shadows- no, more than that. They were almost like his wife's clones with their appearance and sweet disposition.
Wearing her mother's large smile, Nozomi would sprout nonsense such as becoming a pororoca being – whatever that was – just like her mother. He didn't try to understand those comments anymore. His children were a mystery, just like his wife.
None of his children ever said the ridiculous notion of 'growing taller' like his wife had said, all those years ago. Not because they didn't have the imagination for it – Nozomi was especially talented in creating over-the-top fantasies – but because the said Mr. Despair had long stopped trying to acquire his death.
He was still his usual depressive self. That would never change. But Nozomu couldn't bring himself to even think of dying now that he had finally discovered true love – even if his version was a little twisted.
Some nights he would wake up in a frenzied state after that particular nightmare. Sweaty and confused, he would try to find a rope in his room so he could finally be condemned for that awful crime, but the soft touch of a pale hand made him stop immediately.
Sometimes, he would see the lovely sight of his wife smiling kindly at him. Understanding would flow between them and Nozomu would forget about the nightmare and deem it unreal.
Sometimes he would see an entirely different person sharing his bed – one of his ex-students, he shouted in disbelief – and would quickly flee the room in search for his wife. Sometimes he would find her first, mysteriously sleeping in another room instead of theirs or already preparing breakfast. Sometimes she would find him in one of the house's many corridors and assure him with a smile that she was very much alive.
Her easy smile prompted him to forget not only about his nightmare (that horrendous scene where he would see his wife's body, still in her late teens when they met, discarded lifeless on the street surrounded by an ever-growing large bright red spot) but also about the fact that many others also lived with them, participating in a never ending cycle of legal discards and proposals.
Once he'd asked his wife about that young reporter who came to interview him months ago and hadn't left their island ever since. As a response he received a playful laugh and a "don't you remember me?" look that sent him chills. The next time he'd asked about the girl had been months later when he and his wife were tranquilly taking a stroll in their garden. The shorthaired girl passed by them with a smile on her face and small hands resting on her bulging stomach. Despite himself – Nozomu was never one to pry since the act of prying often left him in despair – he wondered aloud to his wife who also in the final stages of her latest pregnancy, to which she replied with a short and strict remark that reminisced Kitsu-san.
Sometimes his wife would follow him around to absolutely everywhere – even the bathroom, Nozomu was sorry to say – and sometimes she'd leave him be for the day only to return at night for a delicious cooked meal and a series of sensual touches throughout the night. Sometimes his wife threatened to sue him for absolutely no reason and sometimes she was wickedly cruel in the written messages he received while at other times she was nothing short of the perfect Yamato Nadeshiko and kind, loving words were the only things that left her mouth.
Some days Nozomu himself wasn't the same. Every day he found himself longing for a different side of his wife, for a different touch. Sometimes it would be her breathtaking emerald eye or her soft-spoken, almost childlike voice while at others it would be her strong beating heart or the sensual dripping of her blood that would stain their carpet and kimono.
He always longed for one thing at a time in his wife, knowing he could never have her completely.
At times it seemed that his wife was a multitude of women, as if she was filled with different personalities, different stories and different quirks. But one thing was for certain and that was the love they shared. It didn't matter whether she'd have different eye, hair and skin tone in the next morning or if her voice inexplicably changed every once in a while, she was still his Kafuka. And his Kafuka was simply too complex.