i/r. soc. introspective.
happy midsummer and supersymmetry
day 1
("we don't wait for the world to revolve our way," he says, a physicist, stuck in his feet on the ground but eyes up there, past the mountains, past the stratosphere, there, far and away and looking at things: gas, globs, bursts, collapses, spirals, explosions, bright colors –it's not a fucking void, he reminds her stubbornly and she answers patiently, yes, yes, you told me. Things, she thinks, a model, that are incomprehensible and "because we have to make it happen ourselves?")
Her memories (most of) consist of fenced gardens and British Airways and studying in various fashion houses and hatsumode during the New Year whenever she returns to spend the holiday and violet tulips blooming mid afternoon and the taste of warm super-berries tea and the paper-y, whiskey-filled smell of his study room where he's a dedicated husband to his papers on SUSY; his marriage vow is to be accepted in the most distinct nuclear research/think tank in the whole world.
(however, she watches Hamlet even if she could not understand it, she takes interest in King Lear even if she hates the story, and goes to find an unpolluted night sky to stare at)
His memories consist of muted beige walls, sunlight, a ceiling to floor glass window, shelves and tables –all filled with books and papers and laptops. He knows very well the tick tock of the clock and the perfect radius and speed of light and Standard Model and everything in between his waking moment to the exploding supernova so many light-years away and that's all.
(however, he's fond of the smell of freesia and taste of peach and feel of winter and sometimes, he sits by the city bus stop, bundled in his non-designer clothes, looking at the billboards and glass ads)
They find themselves on the roof of his house, under the stars, Ichigo and Rukia, celebrating their marriage, signing their asses to each other because nobody else would. The at-forty-if-I'm-not-married-you-know-what-to-do thing, except that they did it at 29, they made the promise at 17 when they were best friends.
"I'll divorce you once you find her," she says: so, so sure. She holds up a glass, the regular cylindrical kitchen dinner table one. So pretty and small and petite and black-haired. Her. Her refers to someone else.
He'll never understand satin or dresses or jewelry or photo-finish make ups or what she gets from posing or walking or getting her face in print works as a job. The superficial vanity irks him, all bones and dusts wait in death, fuck the fake enhancements and its definition, it disillusions, bare and imperfections are fine. So he doesn't understand, her eyes are bright enough, so what the fuck are these colors? Her lips are red enough, why put crystals in them? Her body is enough, he can't think of anything to improve in her. (he never told her the brightest star he saw was not among the ones that twinkle at night)
"Likewise," he says: so, so sure as well, opening a bottle of Dom Perignon and pouring it on his glass un-iced and handing the bottle to her like saying, pour it yourself.
The boredom in his work irks her, constellations and stars, she'll never settle with someone like him, and really: you're born too early to go out there, if this is your dream, you'll die unaccomplished, she used to say, and: what's with the math? And he'd defend it like his life depends on his next equation (and in some way, maybe it is, and maybe hers too). He told her math is the language of everything, and she told him to kindly shut up.
But she never met someone as passionate as him, intensely loyal (to numbers and equations) and real and dedicated and that's why, she came back at his door, bags and all, passport and different country visas torn and all to make sure she'll never leave. (then she hugs him and tells him: I'll marry you, you idiot, so you won't be much of a loser)
Or, because that's easier to say than: I fucked up, I'll die lonely, can you accompany me as long as you can?
An hour later, her surname changed, without a single question from him. (he is as selfless as she is selfish)
"I don't like what you do, Rukia, leave it," he says timidly but not: it kind of destroyed you, and: what happened?
"Oh no, don't go all husband on me," she answers with a bitter laugh, "this is temporary and I just quit, remember?" after taking a sip, she looks at him, there's nothing really off about him, "in my world, you'll be ravished," she comments, taking his eyeglasses off, squaring his face with her hand and pushing his shaggy, bright orange hair, and staring into his eyes, "but the stars already own you."
She comments not on his clothes which consist of oversized and mismatch sweaters, stained inner shirt and maroon pants, they don't, however, give a hint of what it's like inside. He notices her looking, "I don't have time to dress up fancy when I'm busy thinking."
"I didn't say anything," she answers and let go of his face.
(they never kissed and she is sure he has never been kissed)
It's the marriage night, as real as it gets. It's on the roof of his townhouse with two ordinary glasses, a bottle of champagne they picked up on the way back, and only the moon to stare back at them.