JOSEPH FRANCIS MAZZELLO THE THIRD would describe olena - whom he lovingly nicknamed ollie - as the sunshine on your face on a summer day. she was the pattering of raindrops on the roof early in the morning. she was the clicking of a typewriter as someone typed furiously on it. she was that giddy bit of anxious stupor when you accidentally lean against wet paint. she was sunrise and sunset, and every moment in between. she was the delight of biting into a perfectly ripened peach. she was the first cup of coffee in the morning, the feeling of caffeine rushing through your veins. she was the stroke of a paintbrush on canvas; the stroke of a pen on paper; the stroke of fingers on a keyboard.
ollie was a lover of human touch and connection. when laying in bed with joseph during those early hours of the morning when the world is still bathed in a blue-grey, she liked to lay close to him, running the tips of her fingers gently across his facial features. she liked to run them first across a cheek, then the eyelids, the eyebrows, the nose, the forehead, the chin, the lips. from the lips, she trailed down the neck, tracing the collarbone, daring to continue lower still. when out in public with him, she always insisted on having some sort of contact at all times, whether hands were being held, or knees were touching when seated, or even constant stolen kisses. she adored being held and carried and sitting on laps, all of it. she loved nothing more than to lay with joseph using her chest as a pillow, legs wrapped around his torso as he wrapped his arms around her, during which she loved to run her fingers through his hair until the both of them fell into slumber.
olena was hard edges, rough but dressed in a way that was polished. she was perfect posture and carried herself like that of her immigrant grandparents, in the fact that she tried to disguise her heritage in order to fit in, embracing who she was only in private. she wore an orthodox cross on a silver chain around her neck, tucked neatly below her clothes. her hair was always brushed out and yanked into some sort of bun. she held her tongue, never going against the words of her elders.
joseph's ollie was soft, and jungle wild. she slouched and sometimes jutted out her hips, carrying herself in the kind of confidence most do not develop until they are in their last years of life. she was proud of her heritage, taking time to explain her name, its origins, and what it meant when anyone asked. she never wore her cross, believing not in the traditional god and only in the idea that there could maybe, possibly be a supreme being overlooking them. her hair was let loose and wild, snagging on anything and everything, adoring when her lover ran their fingers around the curls. she spoke out always, refusing to hold her tongue. she always let her opinion be known and corrected people who were wrong regardless of their age in comparison to hers.
joseph's ollie was a field of sunflowers, growing tall and wild. she was a willow tree, reaching out to touch and embrace others. she was wildflowers along the side of the road, this splash of colour in an otherwise monotone scenery. she was every beautiful thing you could possibly think of.