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
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.