She is envy and obsession and eternity, three things that will not, will never be a "right" combination (under his definition and the world's definition and even hers, she thinks sometimes). But they say nothing is forever, and if so, she is just envy and obsession, and that is the saddest form of existence, lower than the ground her feet tread upon.
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She is lithe and moves silently in the dark. Her sister says that she should stop that because it frightens her terribly and her brother is never there to tell her what he thinks and then there is none, because these two are all she has, flesh and blood – of snow, of porcelain, of everything too fragile and wintry-white to be pure without insanity.
Her sister is not insane (and so she is not the frigid snows that trouble her siblings). Her brother is insane enough (and so he is a Frankensteinian mess of red and white, too cold to ever be warm). And she, she is the most insane of them (and so she is winter itself – frosty breath suspended in midair and icicles that hang downside-up – as well as envy and obsession and eternity). A juxtaposition of too lonely and too determined and too quick to give out her heart. She wore it on her sleeve (because once, she was young and naïve) and his scarf snagged it one day. And thus this cycle began. (Neither of them are sure as to when it will end. If at all.)
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Her sister wishes for the old days (before that); her sister wishes for the happy young girl who listened with wide eyes as her brother told her of fields of vivid-yellow flowers. Those days are long gone, she told her icily, once. I don't regret saying that, she claims, when people confront her about it. (That is a lie, but sometimes it is too late to turn things back. She pretends it is so, at least.)
And there are things that actually are too late to change. She is now a sharp young woman of centuries' age. She is now alone, stands alone and wishes for more that she cannot have. She does not care about the rest of the world as long as she has her sun. (Her life revolves around it.)
And she has a sister who misses her, and who will continue to miss her until she breaks free from orbit (never, for then, what purpose would she have?).
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He is warm and then he is not. His breath is vodka-laced and intoxicating, and she is drunk without drinking. With any other she would have recoiled and struck, but with him, she will allow anything. Let him have his way with her. If only.
(In the morning, he will see her sleeping form beside him and sigh and brush the stray hairs from her face. She will wake up to an empty bed and a note telling her that the hotel bills have been paid for and that he will see her at the next conference.)
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There is another 'he'; there are many other 'he's. She loathes them, loathes them but cannot stop herself from freefalling into one night stands that should never have been because in the end it hurts too much.
Trembling boys that heliked.
Arrogant men she never should have met, but couldn't run away from because they looked so much like him.
Men too pretty to be men, far prettier than her, with an ageless grace. Pretty men with long hair and quick bodies, pretty men that could tell her stories of him.
Then there are 'more-than-just-a-night's, men that could have been, but would not. There is a determined one, of pastel greens and earthy browns. He smiles as though he means it (he's lying) and wants to change himself. He truly would; he offers himself to her, clay to an artist. 'But what if I am not a sculptor or a potter, but a painter?' she asks him, and he replies curtly, 'Then I would be everything you wanted to paint' and she scoffs and turns away (but comes back later in the night in a flurry of tangled sheets and 'I hate you's. He acts confused and pained when she says such words, but he would know, wouldn't he? stop pretending).
And then there is a blonde with eyes bluer than the midday skies. He is bright and brilliant and dazzling. He laughs as though he is not what he is and wants to change her. She meets him after the dissolution, and he becomes her crutches as she tries to live without obsession and envy. (He tries and tries, coaxes her and tries to force onto her his own ideals. Inevitably, he fails, and she returns to him. It hurts more.)
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It is a Tuesday and fairly average as far as Tuesdays go. She asks him if he loves her, because a Tuesday is as good as any other day to stop repetition, to stop declaring things everyone knows and to start searching for answers.
"…yes, of course I love you. But only as my dear sister, yes?"
Trepidation tinges his voice, and something that may or may not have been pity. (But didn't everyone pity her?) But there is warmth in it, too, warmth that he only reserves for the people he loves; she can sense that much and it makes her happy.
From then on she stops asking him to marry her. Her dreams of satin dresses and winter kisses have evaporated. Marriage was permanent when she first asked, all those long years ago, but this is the era of divorcees and widows, and she would rather have even the smallest fraction of love forever than his full love for a length of time that, no matter how long, would be too short and too soon. Several years is too fleeting, even for a human, and she is not human; she is envy and obsession and eternity, and eternity will wait forever. Eternity will wait until it collapses onto itself, onto others and onto abstract concepts like love and forever.
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She is envy and obsession and eternity, a wrong combination that could fuel everything and anything, and thus, she will keep on going until she gets what she wants. And she will never, ever stop.