A/N: Very random short oneshot I came up with inspired by the wonderfully depressing rainy day we had today--- it's my first attempt at second person… very, very not my usual style. And if it sounds incomplete or choppy at the end, that's the way it's supposed to sound so… yeah.
Disclaimer- I don't own HSM.
You listen dully as the rain pounds down; the soft, gentle thuds sounding vaguely relaxing as you sit tensely at the plain, square wooden dining table, a chipped but steaming heavy white porcelain mug of untouched black coffee sitting in front of you. Being a neurosurgeon, you know when to remain calm and unemotional and detached, and now is one of those times. Your face is carefully wiped blank, and you are waiting. Waiting for him, as always.
You have prepared a mug of coffee for him also, just the way he likes it, with milk and a little sugar, and it is cooling at the empty chair across from you. The expansive kitchen is dim, the fancy appliances only dark shadows. The power has gone out with the storm, and so you have duly lit some candles, unfortunately inadvertently setting a fairly romantic mood. This meeting is, in truth, anything but romantic. It is funny in a very unamusing way that you have taken to calling conversations with your husband meetings. But nowadays, it is what they are. But, you reason to yourself, that is generally what tends to happen when your husband cheats on you and with his secretary no less. You almost laugh at the cliché, but then… you don't. Somehow, when it actually happens to you, it seems less funny than when you read about it in the advice column of the newspaper. When you read about it, it doesn't seem real. You shake your head and think, 'Poor thing', but you never really think it will actually happen to you. And then it does.
You never thought you were a cheating, having an affair type of couple. But then again, neither did the poor soul who wrote in to Dear Abby about her own husband and his secretary, right? You bitterly wonder if it was maybe the same secretary. What was her name? Andrea, you think, but truthfully you cannot and don not even want to remember. The whore.
Then you remember you are supposed to be emotionless, and right on time too, because you hear his key slowly turning in the lock, and the door slowly, almost cautiously opening, and his muffled footsteps approaching, growing louder and louder as he nears.
You look up as he enters the doorway, nodding curtly, professionally. He is wearing a loose, faded black Polo shirt that you have always thought he looked good in, and blue jeans. His expression is the typical cheating-husband countenance: apologetic, pleading, regretful, desperate, embarrassed, wide eyed "I swear it only happened once". You let out a barely audible sigh and meet his eyes. "Sit down." When you speak, you mean to sound brusque, gruff, but your voice doesn't seem to agree. Your voice is smaller and sounds more vulnerable than you are comfortable with.
If he picks up on this, which you are sure he does, he is merciful and doesn't show it. He simply sits. Of course, he really isn't in the position to be doing anything else—you have not let him back into your formerly shared house since that day two months ago when he admitted to the affair you had suspected was going on for a long time. Finally, after ignoring phone calls and deleting emails for nearly two months, you agreed to talk about it. You told him to come over, and now he is here.
"What is it?" You ask him. When you speak, your voice comes out how you want it to; toneless. Emotionless. You do not look at him, instead choosing to stare at a point somewhere over his right shoulder.
He flinches and looks down into his coffee cup. "It's cold now," you say abruptly. You emphasize the now, subtly letting him know you have noticed and do not appreciate his lateness. "I'm sorry," he apologizes and his voice is tentative, but also certain, sure. From his face and voice you cannot gage what his apology is for; being late or breaking your heart. You suppose it is both. You breathe in slowly, calmly. He is watching you carefully, studying your face. You would have been aware of this even if you hadn't seen him, because that is the kind of person he is, and knowing this, you purposely keep your face unreadable. He sips his coffee. You sip yours for the first time and swallow slowly, deliberately, trying to buy yourself some time. You love him. He can cheat on you; once, twice, five times, and you will still love him. That is the sad truth and you admit it. You desperately want to forgive him but your pride will not allow you to.
Your head, your practical side, is warning you not to do it. Once a cheater, always a cheater. He will only do it again. As soon as you take him back, he will go back to his secretary. You bet he even has her number on his cell phone speed dial. You say these things to yourself determinedly. You are a soft person, but you will not be soft this time. You will not have your heart broken by him again. He has already done it more than once.
On the other hand, your heart is telling you, beseeching you, to do it; to take him back. To let him move back in, to let him hold you; to rebuild the bridge connecting the two of you. Your heart is reminding you that you take his old sleeping shirts to bed with you every night; that you really miss him, even if you deny it to yourself. It is, in a perverse way, like surgery. Sometimes, there is no medical or practical explanation to open someone up, but you follow your instincts and take a leap of faith, and it pays off. You find an undetected brain aneurysm, or a tiny bruise on the spinal cord, small, but still there. Risks do pay off sometimes. You contemplate this.
The silence in the room is deafening, and subconsciously, you can hear the steady patter of the rain, letting up now. You are quiet for God knows how long, listening to it slow and then become a quiet, unnoticeable drizzle. Only after this happens, you allow yourself to shrug. It is small, imperceptible, barely a movement, but it is still a shrug. And for the first time that night, you see a flicker of hope in his eyes and he nods before heavy silence envelopes you again.
Finally, when you cannot bear the quiet anymore, you speak, pointing. "I bought a new rug for the table last week." It is a completely random statement, but through it, you are calling a truce. He understands this as he looks down at the crimson rug you picked up at Bed, Bath and Beyond last Thursday.
The two of you talk. It is a start.
A/N: You choose the couple—I had a particular one in mind, but I'm not saying who. It could really be any pairing. And yes, I know the ending sounds unfinished, and that's exactly what I was going for. Thanks for reading :)