She loves his mouth the most. Of all the things, she thinks, his mouth is her favorite. She's not sure what it is exactly…something about the shape it
makes when he smirks, or genuinely smiles or…there is something distinct there.
And she tells him, because she's good at blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. "I love your mouth." The words tumble forward too quickly for her to even consider catching them.
He lowers the paper shielding his face, enough to where his eyes are peering over it. She can see the mirth in his gaze, can feel her face reddening.
This is called embarrassment.
"Excuse me?" An eyebrow is raised.
"Nothing."
"Mhmm…my mouth thanks you. Of course, the other parts of my face are taking offense, maybe hiding in shame, but my mouth-"
"You sound like my mother."
This is called the quickest way to shut Justin up.
So he does, because the quickest way to bruise his ego is comparing him to her mother, who, even six years later and three thousand miles away holds some sort of power over him.
The paper crumples against the table. He's too lazy to fold it, and irritated enough to bother her. She stares blankly at one corner of the Business section, looking up only when he stands. A quick kiss grazes her forehead, clumsy and careless. This kiss feels cold sliding across her skin, a little like snake but mostly evident of apathy.
"See you tonight."
"You're mad."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Tash, we could play this game forever but I'm gonna be late for work."
"Okay." Her voice is quiet, almost inaudible against the one that screams stupidity inside her head. From mother to daughter, the inability to think before speaking has been passed on.
He sighs, and it's something close to guilt. Leaning down, he kisses her mouth. And now, it's gentle, lingering…it's genuine.
This is called contentment.
These are the moments she can't get enough of. Mostly, things being as they are, their fights are infrequent and petty, at best. They haven't had an actual fight in years, which surprises her because there was a time when she thought fighting was the only hope of their staying together.
It turns out she was wrong.
She smiles up at him dizzily, her eyes still half-closed and thinks that she likes being wrong.
><><<br />
North Bend is a world away, and sometimes Natasha misses it. There is a simple, effective beauty to it that Seattle cannot hope to match. Seattle is a muddled city in itself. It wants to be beautiful, and in between the nearly perpetual rain it almost succeeds. Maybe a brief week in springtime, or the last month of summer, when she can actually see her withering garden sprout signs of life.
But then the downpours return, and she wonders when she found time to plant a garden in the first place. And further deliberates what book she could have read during the wasted hours she spent on that garden.
Looking out the window now, she watches the droplets cling to the glass reluctantly. They hold their own for as long as they can, slipping down and away and disappearing into new droplets.
All the water melds together.
Every day is the same, a blur which she tries with foggy eyes to see past.
She's been numb for so long it becomes harder to think clearly. Anymore, it becomes harder to think at all.
Justin watches her sometimes, when she doesn't know he's looking, and he remembers her happy.
This is called regret.
Fleeting glimpses give him temporary appeasement, but it rarely lasts. She offers stolen smiles in the dark when he tells her he loves her. She doesn't doubt him. But he feels like he should tell her, over and over because perhaps if this solitary fact is unmistakable, then everything else will fall into place.
It won't. For them, it never seems to.
She was always happy in North Bend.
He doesn't mistake this for weakness. If nothing else, she's the strongest person he knows. But being so far away from everything familiar has done its damage. Delicately, but surely.
They relocated because he asked her to and she said yes. In a very basic, matter-of-fact sort of way. He had a wonderful opportunity and she told him he would be foolish not to take it. She could always find work.
And she has. Or had.
She rarely works now. The days are long and her feet too tired. She finds herself confusing days from nights and there are lapses where she doesn't get out of bed at all. Things seem less harsh from a bedroom perspective.
If she closes her eyes long enough, she can picture the town. She can picture the local diner.
The tiny streets and familiar faces wander in and out of her train of thought, making an impression just long enough to satiate her.
Her mother is there, saying obscene things and grinning. Prodding about how Justin is in bed and sharing details about her own that Natasha finds too informative.
This is called breaking.
She does cry, but only when he's not home.
What's strange is that he almost wishes he could see the tears. He isn't sure they exist anymore. If she cries, he knows the meaning of the word comfort. He's even learned how to exude and carry out the proper functions when necessary. The process has been memorized.
Hold.
Kiss.
Promise.
Love.
They're just words. But understanding them carries a different weight entirely, a weight he's learned to bear proudly.
Numbness is what he's afraid of. He doesn't have a proper reaction for numbness.
Moments where she doesn't respond if he's speaking.
Days where she doesn't get out of bed.
These are the things that scare him.
His only aids are the very things that mock him from inside the medicine cabinet every morning.
This is called a losing battle.
On the days he doesn't know what to do, he just climbs in beside her and tells her stories. Tiny fragments of the truth splashed into fairytales from childhood.
Cinderella had terrible feet from spending so many years wearing those stupid glass slippers.
Snow White ditched the Prince for Grumpy, who had a vastly under appreciated charming side.
Sleeping Beauty later suffered from chronic insomnia.
Once upon a time, she smiles, maybe even laughs, and happily ever after almost seems plausible.
><><<br />
"What is it?" she asks, earnestly.
He smirks at her anticipation, relieved that she accepts the package with some level of excitement. "Open it."
So she does.
The plane tickets greet her with bright, admirable colors and an eager hopefulness.
"We're going home to visit? But it's not Christmas."
"We're not visiting." Justin doesn't miss the way that, even six years later, she still calls it home.
"What?"
"I got a job offer in Columbus," he says quietly.
"No, you didn't," she shakes her head, the tears forming in her eyes.
"Well, I begged for a job in Columbus and after they got sick of me calling, they gave it to me. I don't beg, Tash."
"I know."
"Good."
She laughs despite the water coursing down her cheeks and onto the floor, not unlike the rain but circumstantially in opposition.
It is the first time in their history that he is ecstatic for having caused the tears. This, he understands completely.
This is called relief.
She throws her arms around him and crawls into his lap. Her lips taste whatever they can find…his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, and finally, his mouth.
Her kiss is fiery and impassioned, but above all it is thankful.
When she pulls back, he takes a long, hard look at her face. With his palms he wipes the water stains from her cheeks, pressing his mouth chastely against her already swollen lips briefly.
She looks past him to the window.
Outside, the rain has stopped.
And she tells him, because she's good at blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. "I love your mouth." The words tumble forward too quickly for her to even consider catching them.
He lowers the paper shielding his face, enough to where his eyes are peering over it. She can see the mirth in his gaze, can feel her face reddening.
This is called embarrassment.
"Excuse me?" An eyebrow is raised.
"Nothing."
"Mhmm…my mouth thanks you. Of course, the other parts of my face are taking offense, maybe hiding in shame, but my mouth-"
"You sound like my mother."
This is called the quickest way to shut Justin up.
So he does, because the quickest way to bruise his ego is comparing him to her mother, who, even six years later and three thousand miles away holds some sort of power over him.
The paper crumples against the table. He's too lazy to fold it, and irritated enough to bother her. She stares blankly at one corner of the Business section, looking up only when he stands. A quick kiss grazes her forehead, clumsy and careless. This kiss feels cold sliding across her skin, a little like snake but mostly evident of apathy.
"See you tonight."
"You're mad."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Tash, we could play this game forever but I'm gonna be late for work."
"Okay." Her voice is quiet, almost inaudible against the one that screams stupidity inside her head. From mother to daughter, the inability to think before speaking has been passed on.
He sighs, and it's something close to guilt. Leaning down, he kisses her mouth. And now, it's gentle, lingering…it's genuine.
This is called contentment.
These are the moments she can't get enough of. Mostly, things being as they are, their fights are infrequent and petty, at best. They haven't had an actual fight in years, which surprises her because there was a time when she thought fighting was the only hope of their staying together.
It turns out she was wrong.
She smiles up at him dizzily, her eyes still half-closed and thinks that she likes being wrong.
><><<br />
North Bend is a world away, and sometimes Natasha misses it. There is a simple, effective beauty to it that Seattle cannot hope to match. Seattle is a muddled city in itself. It wants to be beautiful, and in between the nearly perpetual rain it almost succeeds. Maybe a brief week in springtime, or the last month of summer, when she can actually see her withering garden sprout signs of life.
But then the downpours return, and she wonders when she found time to plant a garden in the first place. And further deliberates what book she could have read during the wasted hours she spent on that garden.
Looking out the window now, she watches the droplets cling to the glass reluctantly. They hold their own for as long as they can, slipping down and away and disappearing into new droplets.
All the water melds together.
Every day is the same, a blur which she tries with foggy eyes to see past.
She's been numb for so long it becomes harder to think clearly. Anymore, it becomes harder to think at all.
Justin watches her sometimes, when she doesn't know he's looking, and he remembers her happy.
This is called regret.
Fleeting glimpses give him temporary appeasement, but it rarely lasts. She offers stolen smiles in the dark when he tells her he loves her. She doesn't doubt him. But he feels like he should tell her, over and over because perhaps if this solitary fact is unmistakable, then everything else will fall into place.
It won't. For them, it never seems to.
She was always happy in North Bend.
He doesn't mistake this for weakness. If nothing else, she's the strongest person he knows. But being so far away from everything familiar has done its damage. Delicately, but surely.
They relocated because he asked her to and she said yes. In a very basic, matter-of-fact sort of way. He had a wonderful opportunity and she told him he would be foolish not to take it. She could always find work.
And she has. Or had.
She rarely works now. The days are long and her feet too tired. She finds herself confusing days from nights and there are lapses where she doesn't get out of bed at all. Things seem less harsh from a bedroom perspective.
If she closes her eyes long enough, she can picture the town. She can picture the local diner.
The tiny streets and familiar faces wander in and out of her train of thought, making an impression just long enough to satiate her.
Her mother is there, saying obscene things and grinning. Prodding about how Justin is in bed and sharing details about her own that Natasha finds too informative.
This is called breaking.
She does cry, but only when he's not home.
What's strange is that he almost wishes he could see the tears. He isn't sure they exist anymore. If she cries, he knows the meaning of the word comfort. He's even learned how to exude and carry out the proper functions when necessary. The process has been memorized.
Hold.
Kiss.
Promise.
Love.
They're just words. But understanding them carries a different weight entirely, a weight he's learned to bear proudly.
Numbness is what he's afraid of. He doesn't have a proper reaction for numbness.
Moments where she doesn't respond if he's speaking.
Days where she doesn't get out of bed.
These are the things that scare him.
His only aids are the very things that mock him from inside the medicine cabinet every morning.
This is called a losing battle.
On the days he doesn't know what to do, he just climbs in beside her and tells her stories. Tiny fragments of the truth splashed into fairytales from childhood.
Cinderella had terrible feet from spending so many years wearing those stupid glass slippers.
Snow White ditched the Prince for Grumpy, who had a vastly under appreciated charming side.
Sleeping Beauty later suffered from chronic insomnia.
Once upon a time, she smiles, maybe even laughs, and happily ever after almost seems plausible.
><><<br />
"What is it?" she asks, earnestly.
He smirks at her anticipation, relieved that she accepts the package with some level of excitement. "Open it."
So she does.
The plane tickets greet her with bright, admirable colors and an eager hopefulness.
"We're going home to visit? But it's not Christmas."
"We're not visiting." Justin doesn't miss the way that, even six years later, she still calls it home.
"What?"
"I got a job offer in Columbus," he says quietly.
"No, you didn't," she shakes her head, the tears forming in her eyes.
"Well, I begged for a job in Columbus and after they got sick of me calling, they gave it to me. I don't beg, Tash."
"I know."
"Good."
She laughs despite the water coursing down her cheeks and onto the floor, not unlike the rain but circumstantially in opposition.
It is the first time in their history that he is ecstatic for having caused the tears. This, he understands completely.
This is called relief.
She throws her arms around him and crawls into his lap. Her lips taste whatever they can find…his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, and finally, his mouth.
Her kiss is fiery and impassioned, but above all it is thankful.
When she pulls back, he takes a long, hard look at her face. With his palms he wipes the water stains from her cheeks, pressing his mouth chastely against her already swollen lips briefly.
She looks past him to the window.
Outside, the rain has stopped.
