His eyes are cold and I know he's upset. I want to cry.
"Carter," I say, touching his shoulder. His actions as cold as his eyes, he walks like stone to the toaster, gathering a pitiful breakfast I've managed to bring to him today. He's cheeks are stained with tears that he won't admit he's cried.
"Carter, please talk to me," I say smoothly. He heaves a heavy sigh, and I see those eyes again. They're dark, circles of coal around them, studying his breakfast. The two pieces of toasted bread, lightly browned, against the pale white of the counter.
He stutters at first, on the first syllable he can manage from his sinking lips: "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"
I look at him, his eyes still cast around the room. Anywhere, but on me.
"I don't want to talk about it now."
I breathe, my eyes dart from his graying hands to his eyes again. "You haven't talked about it for two weeks."
"I need time."
Oh, God. I cross my arms over my chest, pouting generously and finding myself at the table. My fingers weaving amongst themselves, twisting and probing for some relief. "Carter, you can talk to me. And if you can't talk to me for some reason, you need to talk to someone."
"I just need time, Abby," he says with a cruelkind chuckle, light with bitterness. "I mean, my grandmother died."
"But you barely say anything anymore," I suggest strongly enough to raise my voice a bit, shrugging.
He throws the toast away, disgusted with it. Pulls the toaster's cord out of the socket without mercy and wraps it around the appliance to stick it back into the cupboard. He throws everything on the counter into their own corners, the upset look on his face the one thing that stands above the crashing noise in the kitchen with us.
I put my face in my hands. I can't take this.
"Would you watch what you're doing?"
He drops whatever he's holding, another hit on the counter and walks out of the room.
I sigh, audibly, hoping to get his attention. "Is this how it's going to be?"
He appears in the room again as I lift my head from my hands. I look against the wall, focusing on some cheap decor as I talk, trying to explain.
"We just tie ourselves in opposites, don't talk, don't say a word - "
"I recall you doing the same not so long ago, Abby," he says blankly, a stare against me biting.
My head snaps up. "I wish you would just talk to me, Carter. I want to help you."
"I don't need help."
"Yes, Carter," I say, stepping from my gentle tone. "Yes, you do. If only you'd say something to me, just let me talk with you about it."
"I don't want to talk anymore."
"Anymore?"
He walks away, and the footsteps are the last thing I hear. His bare feat, with the morning, padding against the carpet softly and the door of the bathroom finally closing.
That's where he looks at himself in the mirror, I know. Then he takes a shower, shaves, watches himself, and leaves for work. Without a kiss, a good-bye...
Things have changed. They've been different lately.
"Carter," I say, touching his shoulder. His actions as cold as his eyes, he walks like stone to the toaster, gathering a pitiful breakfast I've managed to bring to him today. He's cheeks are stained with tears that he won't admit he's cried.
"Carter, please talk to me," I say smoothly. He heaves a heavy sigh, and I see those eyes again. They're dark, circles of coal around them, studying his breakfast. The two pieces of toasted bread, lightly browned, against the pale white of the counter.
He stutters at first, on the first syllable he can manage from his sinking lips: "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"
I look at him, his eyes still cast around the room. Anywhere, but on me.
"I don't want to talk about it now."
I breathe, my eyes dart from his graying hands to his eyes again. "You haven't talked about it for two weeks."
"I need time."
Oh, God. I cross my arms over my chest, pouting generously and finding myself at the table. My fingers weaving amongst themselves, twisting and probing for some relief. "Carter, you can talk to me. And if you can't talk to me for some reason, you need to talk to someone."
"I just need time, Abby," he says with a cruelkind chuckle, light with bitterness. "I mean, my grandmother died."
"But you barely say anything anymore," I suggest strongly enough to raise my voice a bit, shrugging.
He throws the toast away, disgusted with it. Pulls the toaster's cord out of the socket without mercy and wraps it around the appliance to stick it back into the cupboard. He throws everything on the counter into their own corners, the upset look on his face the one thing that stands above the crashing noise in the kitchen with us.
I put my face in my hands. I can't take this.
"Would you watch what you're doing?"
He drops whatever he's holding, another hit on the counter and walks out of the room.
I sigh, audibly, hoping to get his attention. "Is this how it's going to be?"
He appears in the room again as I lift my head from my hands. I look against the wall, focusing on some cheap decor as I talk, trying to explain.
"We just tie ourselves in opposites, don't talk, don't say a word - "
"I recall you doing the same not so long ago, Abby," he says blankly, a stare against me biting.
My head snaps up. "I wish you would just talk to me, Carter. I want to help you."
"I don't need help."
"Yes, Carter," I say, stepping from my gentle tone. "Yes, you do. If only you'd say something to me, just let me talk with you about it."
"I don't want to talk anymore."
"Anymore?"
He walks away, and the footsteps are the last thing I hear. His bare feat, with the morning, padding against the carpet softly and the door of the bathroom finally closing.
That's where he looks at himself in the mirror, I know. Then he takes a shower, shaves, watches himself, and leaves for work. Without a kiss, a good-bye...
Things have changed. They've been different lately.