[ Luther exhales. And it's— some indefinable weight and tension off his shoulders that he hadn't even realised was there to begin with. A strange unclenching of relief, simpatico, understanding. Knowing that he's not alone and pathetic in being so wistful over the past six months, this half-year they'd had together. That she, miracle of absolute miracles, misses it too.
He doesn't know how to follow up on that, though. What do you say? What useless sentiment do you pour into that black hole, when there's a thousand things he wants to say but can't, let alone in front of someone else? In the end, he settles for: ]
I'm glad it's not just me.
[ And then, abrupt, Luther finally rises from his seat. "This TV show is gonna drive me to drink. Anybody want a nightcap? I'll make some," he says, and vanishes to the kitchen to pour some glasses for all three of them. Something to keep his hands busy, something to distract him from this disorienting conversation and the way his heart's pounding in his chest as if he's run around the block. This whole thing. This whole topic. It's like a bruised wound and he can't let himself touch it too much, for the sting. ]
[ Luther second six words, and then as quickly as they arrive he's speaking out loud, causing her to open her eyes and look toward him, as he's quickly vanishing off to the kitchen. She tosses a "Sure," over the couch, toward the kitchen where he's gone, but without getting up to look or to a follow. Staring at the ceiling as the thought turns over and over, unexpectedly, in her head. Thinking about being smaller. Compressed, and certain things quieter. Here, and in Dallas, too, in its own way.
That she'd found something that hadn't made her feel that way. And it was gone, too. Before she'd even realized she'd had it. That there was no way to get it back in this situation.
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obediences) wrote2019-03-28 10:51 am
possibly end or yours to wrap?
He doesn't know how to follow up on that, though. What do you say? What useless sentiment do you pour into that black hole, when there's a thousand things he wants to say but can't, let alone in front of someone else? In the end, he settles for: ]
I'm glad it's not just me.
[ And then, abrupt, Luther finally rises from his seat. "This TV show is gonna drive me to drink. Anybody want a nightcap? I'll make some," he says, and vanishes to the kitchen to pour some glasses for all three of them. Something to keep his hands busy, something to distract him from this disorienting conversation and the way his heart's pounding in his chest as if he's run around the block. This whole thing. This whole topic. It's like a bruised wound and he can't let himself touch it too much, for the sting. ]
☂ End
That she'd found something that hadn't made her feel that way.
And it was gone, too. Before she'd even realized she'd had it.
That there was no way to get it back in this situation.
She really could use that drink. ]