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A Series of Moments Between Clocks
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A Series of Moments Between Clocks
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As Crazy As They
We Can Always Use More Utopia
A Little Church in Corinth
The Theory of Carl Rogers
Historically Speaking
Different Shades, Same Color
A Rose for a Funeral
Reflection
Obsessed With Race

     The lines of her forehead deepened momentarily. Something about his comment had struck her in a peculiar way...but he couldn't have meant to be condescending- not when moments before he had been at her feet begging her to love him; to allow him to love her, which, she thought, he would likely do no matter what. Still, she sensed it. The small, bitter snap of the voice...the clenching of the fists. She stepped out of the beam of light cascading through the bay window and into the safer shadows of the room.

     Could he be angry with her if she clutched her knees to her chest and lay her head on them? Could she really project her inner pain? Yes, yes she could. Could she allow one curly strand of her dark hair fall in front of her eyes, which could fill with sparkling tears in an instant if he looked at her right? Could she sigh deeply, letting the posture accent her curving bust and the breath that came from her in certain passionate moments? Even in this sad, overcast moment, she could do it...and her arrow would go right to his heart. There was no doubting this.

     Before she could do any of these things, though, he was walking through the light she had vacated; walking past her, into the adjoining kitchen. For a moment she did not dare look at him. Her instincts told her that lettting him see her falter in her cold bubble even for a few seconds would have her back in his arms.
In his arms, with stipulations other than her own.

     There was the faint sound of clattering dishes and the water being turned on. Beneath it all, the monotone clicking of the clock on the stove; a painful counter rhythm to the grandfather clock behind her. She noticed these things intently, shutting out the thing that bothered her most-

     He was ignoring her.

     It was a rage beyond tears. It called for only silent pouting. Yes, she could do that. When he returned, she would still be here, and then he would look at her. She would glance at him shyly, then away, as if she had not meant to be caught looking. She would smile internally as he came to her side and turned her face with his hand so he could wipe a tear from its origin. Then she would let her eyes meet his, and the moment would be locked in time. He would see in them his routines, his habits, his mindless desires. That would be enough to hold him, but still, she would no back down. She would open them a little wider, blink...allow her long lashes to come between him and her exposed soul for a short time. Then her hand could come up and grasp his wrist, and she could really let the tears go.

     He would never regret leaving a room more.