It's hard to imagine Luther somewhere he calls 'shit,' when the only comparisons she has are the meticulous little room next to hers, and the Big House, and this one. With all his books and the record player in his room. Pieces here or there left throughout the house. A coffee mug. A book he was still reading.
It's not that she doesn't believe him, just that it's hard to picture at all. Luther letting anything slide that long. The question of just what could. What was his year like thinking they were all dead?
"It did." The strangest part is there's no note of arrogance in her tone. No selfishness. No ownership. She knows it should be there. She's thinking about the blankets given as gifts, and the series of times picking out furniture. It's her. She did those things. But it doesn't feel like it anymore. It feels like someone else did those things—someone with her face, and her smile, and her voice, but not her.
Her thumb slips under the knit of her fingers, and the tip of it worries the back of her ring, moving it back and forth the smallest bits on her finger. All of it hurts. Like there's a crater right under her breast bone, charred edges, and smoking pit. But it doesn't hurt like it should. It doesn't hurt like losing Claire hurt. It doesn't hurt like it's going to kill her. Which only makes her feel worse. A hypocrite. Heartless.
It should, shouldn't it? Hurt like the world is ending without him. Hurt like the world is ending, because it isn't, and he won't be here.
"Design was always hard. There's so much the '60s didn't yet have for houses." There's a frown at the ceiling because it's not even that simple. "Or did, but they weren't about to sell it, deliver it, or install it for colored folks." The flip of the last two words is easily mimicked bitter.
no subject
It's not that she doesn't believe him, just that it's hard to picture at all.
Luther letting anything slide that long. The question of just what could.
What was his year like thinking they were all dead?
"It did." The strangest part is there's no note of arrogance in her tone. No selfishness. No ownership. She knows it should be there. She's thinking about the blankets given as gifts, and the series of times picking out furniture. It's her. She did those things. But it doesn't feel like it anymore. It feels like someone else did those things—someone with her face, and her smile, and her voice, but not her.
Her thumb slips under the knit of her fingers, and the tip of it worries the back of her ring, moving it back and forth the smallest bits on her finger. All of it hurts. Like there's a crater right under her breast bone, charred edges, and smoking pit. But it doesn't hurt like it should. It doesn't hurt like losing Claire hurt. It doesn't hurt like it's going to kill her. Which only makes her feel worse. A hypocrite. Heartless.
It should, shouldn't it? Hurt like the world is ending without him.
Hurt like the world is ending, because it isn't, and he won't be here.
"Design was always hard. There's so much the '60s didn't yet have for houses." There's a frown at the ceiling because it's not even that simple. "Or did, but they weren't about to sell it, deliver it, or install it for colored folks." The flip of the last two words is easily mimicked bitter.