A/N: written for the prompts "meteor shower" and "photo booth" for ga_lfas on livejournal. The title is taken from Waltzing Past the Grave by Jay Clifford.
"I brought sandwiches." Your words break into a silence so awkward even the radio gets lost in it. "Roast beef. Mustard. From that little deli you like." You clear your throat. "And there's beer in the cooler."
She sort of smiles, but her eyes show a blend of concern, discomfort and tortured, stubborn willingness to be in love with you. She shifts a little in her seat, gazing briefly out the window into the darkness and craning to give the invisible shooting stars a last chance.
"It's too cloudy," she says, matter-of-fact. Then adds, more softly, "Maybe we should give up on astronomy-themed dates."
"Cristina . . ." you begin, but there's nothing to say. The meteor shower idea – romantic amends for the aborted first date to see the Northern Lights - was misjudged and too resonant; the unforgiving Seattle weather, that promised clarity and lights and delivered only murky skies, underlines that. "I'm sorry. I-"
Then a dim memory surfaces and you turn on the loud, rattling ignition of your truck.
"What?" she demands, using impatience to overlay the fear that she's done the wrong thing.
You hate that you do that to her; hate that you take away her confidence, her Yangness. So you half-wink, hold up a finger, trying to take communication back to normal and bring her with you. "You'll see," you say as you reverse. "If I remember correctly, it's only a little way down here." And you set of driving down the road.
"What?" she asks again. But she's tuned to your moods and she's caught the optimism and, this time, she's a little intrigued.
You do better in the present, you and she - that's where it's real and clear; that's where you understand each other.
"Right here," you say, pulling into a parking space outside a small, log-built bar. You get out, slamming the driver's door shut almost confidently, and then walk around to her side. "Ma'am," you say, opening her door. She raises an eyebrow, but steps out, delicate in her own way, waiting for what comes next.
Inside the bar, at the back, you're relieved to find it's still there. A lot of these things are gone and this one is from way back. (The past again – but so long ago, so long before all the damage, you'll forgive yourself and take it for the present.)
"A photo booth?" she asks caustically, in a way that makes you want to kiss her because it's her. "Are we seventeen now?"
"After you," you say, ushering her in with the gentle implication of Quit bitching, which she responds to with another raised eyebrow, and also something like a real smile.
There's some shuffling, but the reticence has broken. And when she slides onto your lap and laughs a real, wild laugh as you kiss her throat in the camera's flash, you know you got it right. You and she, in the present, where it's good.