Dislcaimer: Not mine.
Note: Approximately ten years in the future, and it's not a pretty picture. Make of it what you will.
Tangle
She was running late – as usual – and in a brilliant display of recklessness, she didn't bother slowing down as she turned the corner.
There were times, in the days that followed, when she wished she had, in the event that such a simple precaution could have prevented the incident that followed. Then again, there were also times, in the same days that followed, when she was grateful that she didn't, lest she wouldn't have been struck with such the barrel of emotions that arose and lingered soon after that very incident.
In any case, the only thoughts that were flitting about in her head in the preceding moments were that she'd better come up with a plausible explanation for her tardiness and that it had better be one she hadn't used before – in her case, a feat much more difficult than it sounded.
Of course, those thoughts soon slid right out of her head and onto the pavement when suddenly, her face touched down briefly smack dab in the middle of a decently built chest encased in a clichéd, yet dependable white buttoned down shirt. And if that wasn't already a scene out of a silly little movie, when she tried to steady herself by lifting her head, she only wound up becoming acquainted with a chin that was clear evidence of good bone structure.
A few grunts (on his part) and a few "ow"s (on her part) later, having managed to successfully disentangle herself, she stepped back, wary of any other potential mishaps that could befall her, and got a good look at her partner in clumsy.
She was expecting an initial moment of awkwardness followed by uneasy laughing, and finally, terse apologies - from both sides, of course. She wasn't expecting this.
"Dean!" Her voice, high-pitched and wavering, betrayed her surprise and poor attempt at composure; and with one word, she was reduced to the girl she had once been and had vowed to never again be. It was uncanny how quickly the past came rushing at her. Uncanny, uninvited, and more than a little uncomfortable.
"Rory." His voice was even, amiable even, and she was assaulted with the unfairness of it all. It was unfair that she should be the one to turn into a bumbling fool while he stood unaffected and composed, albeit freakishly so.
And while she was inwardly noting the unfair factor, there was also a part of her that was reminding her that it shouldn't have come as any surprise. After all, she could count on two hands occasions that had similarly evoked such responses from both of them. So yeah, it was unsurprising. But it was still unfair – and more so.
"What...uh…what are you doing here? In New York, I mean. Not here, on the sidewalk, because, well, that's a ridiculous question and it's plainly obvious what you're doing on the sidewalk, and that's a good thing, because you have every right to do, uh, that on the sidewalk…" She just let herself trail off, mostly because she had nothing else to say that could succeed such a mesh of ramble, but also because she was horrified at her complete inability to form a coherent sentence. She was sure that her face was nearing the shade of red as the small bag that hung from her shoulder, and in that moment, she wished for nothing more than the concrete to split open and swallow her hole.
She was 27, dammit. She was a professional. She was educated and cultured and sophisticated. She was a fucking English major, for christ's sake.
He was good enough to ignore her nonsensical blathering – and if she weren't so flustered at the moment, she might have remembered that about him. Nevertheless, he gave no indication of amusement or disdain or any of the other multitude reactions that she herself was imagining upon him. He merely smiled politely and answered her original question as if it hadn't been overshadowed by what followed.
"I'm just in town for the weekend." He didn't elaborate, and though she was curious, she didn't press for more information, for fear that she'd come off as prying as well as erratic. There was really no need to add fuel to the fire.
"Oh. That's nice." God. This was getting ridiculous. First she had too much to say, and now she had nothing at all. She smiled in an attempt to disguise her pithy and dull reply.
"Yeah." He smiled that infuriatingly polite smile again, and she quickly, but fruitlessly, tried to recall that smile from the residue of the past. She couldn't possibly have tolerated that smile for the years that they were together, so it must be a new addition to his person. She hated it. She hated it, but at the same time, she was intrigued by it and what had caused its birth.
She hadn't taken the time to carefully consider her options (or her obligations), and so it was startling for both of them when she asked. "Well, if you're not too busy, maybe…do you want to maybe get some lunch? Or coffee?" she threw in at the last moment, knowing he would prefer the latter choice.
It would be gauche to simply exchange goodbyes on the sidewalk, and a whole meal was more of a commitment than either one of them was willing to concede. In the end, coffee, with its just right amount of pretense, was the perfect compromise.
"Yeah, okay. Coffee's good." They stood there on the sidewalk for a few still seconds, until she realized that he was waiting for her to lead them. And that was only normal, she supposed, since she lived here and he was only visiting. It was polite, after all.
They walked a few blocks, conversing apprehensively while she sneaked glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She hadn't yet been able to assess him properly, beyond the dove gray suit that he wore and the polite smile that he armed. She mentally took notes on him – he looked good, hadn't changed much, walked the same way…Somehow, she was hoping that she would be able to pinpoint something different, something that made him unlike the person she known all those years ago. Of course, she realized that her perception was cursory and so, there was enough about him that she didn't know that satisfied her need for a disparity between what he was and what he is.
Inside, he asked her about her family, the town, schooling – all the commonplace points that people who knew each other in a past life touch on after having encountered each other again. She returned the same superficial interest in his life that he did in hers, neither of them venturing quite past the neutral and harmless.
To anyone who happened to be looking at the couple in the corner of the small would-be café, the scene, on its face, seemed somewhat trite, but not unusually so. There were strained silences, tedious dialogue, and the occasional smile. The overlaying sheet of tension and discomfort would go unnoticed, as would the woman's intense preoccupation with the wall art in an effort to avoid maintaining eye contact with the man seated across from her.
*****
She could recall clearly just how she'd ended up here. Here. In this room. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon of what was, only a few hours ago, a somewhat inconvenient, but normal, Friday. The sequence of events kept playing through her head, forever tuned to repeat until it – or more accurately, she – broke. But it hadn't happened yet, and so she resigned herself to the knowledge that this was one more act of stupidity and carelessness in a long series of such acts. Eventually, it would all end and come tumbling down on top of her, crushing her with the weight of the guilt and the regret and the hurt and the apathy that have been her confidantes these past few years. Until then, there was still today to get through.
Glancing around at the room, now in a haphazard state of being, her eyes were drawn to unavoidable reminders of what she'd done. What they'd done. It wasn't something borne of need or want or even desperation. That would make some semblance of sense. No, this rested on a plane of illogical and ill-conceived that she herself was momentarily confused. Just momentarily. And then the bewilderment passed, and she merely dismissed the most recent mistake of her adult life. It wasn't worth obsessing over. It wasn't worth questioning, or even regretting. It just was, and sometimes, things weren't more than they appeared.
In all simplicity, they had fucked. It had happened and now that it was over, there was no longer any purpose for her presence there. With him. She knew that she would probably never see him again. She assumed he knew the same thing, and if he didn't he would soon catch on. He wouldn't need her help in understanding, because if she was sure of one thing after this most unforeseen turn of events, it was that underneath that polite smile he was just as fucked up as she was. And that was as much a comfort to her as it was a neon signing flashing, signaling danger ahead.
She dressed quickly and noiselessly, in hopes of making her escape without
waking him up. It would only be awkward,
and she had already had more than her day's quota of awkward. This way, she would spare them both the
distress of confrontation. She guessed
that were their positions reversed, he would do no different.
As she gathered her things, she came upon a few of his own clothes, strewn across the floor, not so much in haste, but instead, with ambivalence. That annoyed her, and so she draped them over the back of a chair.
She didn't look at him as she made her way to the door, or as she closed it behind her.
The click of her heels upon the tiled marble resonated throughout the hallway, and
as she waited for the elevator, she looked herself over in the full length
mirror. She smoothed a stray hair,
reached into her purse to apply a fresh coat of lipstick, and tucked an
uncooperative bra strap back into place.
The bell rang, signaling the arrival of the elevator, and she quickly glanced at her watch, although she was already well aware that it was too late to go back to work. It was bad form, and she was not one to indulge in that type of impropriety. She stepped into the car, and watched as the gilded doors closed in on her reflection, before opening again, depositing her at the mercy of the city. Right back where she started.