The trail started in her bedroom. It wasn't even his sock.
It had been a really cold Sunday afternoon, the kind that made you want to stay in bed and watch Gilmore Girls all day long. And that's exactly what they'd done. He'd asked a lot of questions, but she was happy to talk about her show for hours. He didn't ask because he wanted to know, he just wanted to hear her talk about something she loved. He did that sometimes. He probably thought he was being sly, that she didn't know, but she could see it in his eyes, the half smile. She could see it in the way he held his breath waiting for her to finish a story he wasn't even listening to.
Had it been like that before? When they weren't... Had she squandered away moments where she held his attention in that way?
Her feet were always cold, a fact that he teased her about mercilessly. She didn't mind. She'd press her freezing cold toes to his shin and he'd screech like a wounded animal. Maybe it was her way of reflecting his behavior, her way of drawing him out. For a guy who could be so taciturn, when he found the words, even silly, mocking words, he could really take the ball and run with it. He'd make terrible puns, threaten to go get a bucket of ice to warm her feet up, make suggestive comments about other parts of her being warmer and welcome. She'd just smile and bask in it, watching his eyes sparkle, his lips moving a million miles an hour, his enormously expressive Italian gestures. It was a kind of magic to see this muted man so animated, about her.
Which is how she came to be holding a purple sock found under the clothes hamper without its mate, her eyes blurred, swallowing hard as she willed away the memory of him gently putting the sock on her foot like she was Cinderella. Such a stupid way to romanticize this small gesture. He'd warmed her foot in his huge hands, kissing the sole, and slid a fuzzy sock on her foot. When he held her like that she didn't feel self conscious of her wide feet, skin a little ashy, pedicure in need of a touch up. She felt... safe. She felt small. She felt cared for.
She threw the sock in the trash can and said a little prayer that she never saw its mate.
. . . . . .
The trail picked up at the door.
He'd wore this old thermal lined flannel shirt when he went outside to smoke in the cold. It didn't really work and he still smelled a little of cigarettes when he came in, but it was a little fantasy she indulged him in because she loved and hated when he smelled like smoke. Never in her life had she imagined that his habit would feel like it fit in their life. Sorry, his life. Not hers. He didn't smoke often, and maybe that's why it felt...right. He smoked when he was unhappy, and it wasn't that she wanted him to be unhappy, but it was little tell in a man who held his cards close to the chest. He didn't do vulnerable. But he did do worried, and that Danny, the Danny who she knew was more affected than he ever let anyone know, even her... she wanted more of him. Sometimes she'd watch him from the window. Sometimes he'd watch her too, eyes locked, unspoken connection as they stood and stared. Maybe it should have been a red flag that his unguarded moments were only available to her at a distance, through a window pane.
She held the collar to her nose and inhaled deeply. He had the kind of money that meant he could buy nice things, the kind of scents that would be complimentary to the expensive stuff she wore. Instead he wore the same aftershave he'd probably used since he was 17. It came from a drugstore, and it was possible that it was the brand his dad had used before him. A stupid sentimental tribute to a man who hadn't even stuck around long enough to teach his son to shave. He never could shave quite close enough, another legacy from a father who honestly never deserved him. He'd have a shadow by lunchtime, but she didn't mind. His lips were soft enough for anything, and the prickle of the beard he couldn't keep at bay made for a beautiful contrast when he held those lips to her throat. Like the man himself, his kisses were equal parts tenderness and rough edges. She had kissed enough men to know that she'd probably never know lips like that again. Stubble, yes. Softness, probably. But the marriage between the two like sand and sea were rare as natural pearls. As she held the shirt to her face, lost in a memory she desperately wanted to let go of, she knew for a fact that the shirt would not follow the sock into the trash. Not yet.
She hung the shirt back up on her coat rack and wiped hot tears from her face. It wasn't even like crying anymore, just...like the sorrow had leaked out of her and into the world around her, leaving a mess like it always did.
. . . . .
She tried not to look up as she walked to the subway, tried not to see the other things. Things that had become a private joke between them as they walked together, hand in hand. Like the weird sculptures that neighbor on the 3rd floor kept in the window. He'd intimated that they were suggestive of the finer parts of a lady's anatomy, and while she saw it all along and always kinda loved the weirdo who put them out there for the whole street to admire, she just feigned innocence. He just had a dirty mind sometimes and she loved that side of him. For everything he could hide from her, she could hide nothing from him. He'd say provocative little things to make her blush and kiss her hot cheeks. What a stupid game for two people well past their best flirting years to engage in. If she looked up today she'd see those sculptures, but the only thing to cool her flushed cheeks this morning would be the cold rain. So she just didn't look up.
. . . .
She couldn't escape the place with the dumplings though. The scent reached her before she turned the corner and keeping her head down did nothing to suppress a memory of too many bottles of wine and a sudden craving for dumplings. They were like 4 for a dollar and quite possibly the unhealthiest food in a 4 block radius, but she had not been able to let go of the idea of them. It was drunk logic and both of them had known it, but he'd been surprisingly easy to convince. Pulling on boots and a coat he'd said he'd be right back. He was only in the elevator before she's missed him more than she'd ever wanted dumplings. More drunk logic for sure, but the craving was there all the same. She'd put on her own boots and a coat over pajamas with little birds on them and run down the stairs to try and catch him at the elevator. She'd missed him and was probably an entire block behind him the whole time.
When he'd turned from the counter with a paper bag and saw her through a steamed window waiting for him, he'd smiled. You really wanted dumplings, huh? he'd said. No. She'd kissed him and they had walked home, eating directly from the container with their fingers.
She kept her head down as she passed. Nothing to do about that but swallow the memory. Her appetite had dried up days ago, and everything tasted like clay. She could walk away from this. She could.
. . .
Head down on the train, she was grateful she'd managed to avoid making a memory here that couldn't be unmade. She'd used these lines her entire adult life. In the greater scheme of things she had far more memories of uneventful trips, than she'd had trips with him. She tried to picture the trips featuring slightly scary teenagers, pinched butts, sour business types with their heads buried in a newspaper, and old ladies rustling in voluminous bags for a sweet amongst the week's shopping. Her trips with him could be forgotten, the trips with a warm hand covering hers on the center pole, trips where she leaned into him slightly as they swayed together, their bodies synced to counterbalance the movement of the train.
She could forget those trips, if she absolutely had to.
. .
The office was...just the office. They were never anything here. Not really. He wouldn't let them be. The elevator held a lot of memories with other people and lingering too long on a stolen kiss with him was silly. The reception area was a battlefield the first few years, and no ghosts lingered there that wouldn't fade with a little time.
The kitchen was a little tougher. She'd tried to buy him funny mugs (a prescription for coffee printed on one side) and even plain mugs in any color but that weird muddy brown of his favorite mug. Those mugs just went missing in a week or two, and that completely boring, chocolate brown mug stayed. She asked him about it once and his reply (Sometimes a mug is just a mug) probably said something about him, but she'd never know what. He must have held on to it for a reason. Was it just familiarity? Was it a story he didn't want to share with her?
Now the mug held a gravity of its own that was hard to resist and she found her hand caressing the handle before she caught herself and looked around to make sure no one saw the little moment of weakness. Touching something simply because it was his was comforting. He'd held on to that mug a lot longer than he'd held on to her. Maybe it held secrets to unlocking the part of him that she never managed to touch.
She put the mug down. It didn't. Sometimes a mug is just a mug.
.
The trail ended where things often did for her. For them. She leaned back on the sofa, gentle hum of the vending machine to her right, the glow of a muted television washing the room in moving light. She couldn't avoid the lounge forever. This was part of the job, the waiting. Babies came in their own time usually. Sometimes she was needed sooner than expected, sometimes later, but she'd be here waiting. Curled up medical journals and abandoned paper coffee cups littered the table. Who knew so much of her job would be waiting? That was life, she supposed.
Restless, she walked to the window and stared out into the night. She looked reflexively down as though she'd be able to see him so many stories below, the glow of a cigarette, the glitter of his eyes as she waited for him to come back up and either tell her - or more likely not tell her - what he was fretting about this time. She wondered if he'd found little pieces of her scattered across the city as well, and how he was holding up.
She wondered if he'd found the earrings she'd left in his soap dish and thought about the time one dropped directly into her soup, splashing them both. She'd been briefly mortified, but he had laughed so loud and so long that she found herself caught up in it and both of them laughed until their eyes streamed with tears.
She wondered if he'd stopped in that same coffee place today, where she'd sweet talked the barista into making a drink they didn't sell and he'd just gaped at her with his embarrassment rapidly turning to awe. Of all the things for him to admire, he was puffed up at the notion of his girl being so persuasive.
She bit her lip to stop herself smiling. It was too late though. Her eyes closed, she was already tracing the paths through the city; the ways from her place to this lounge; the ways from his place to this lounge; all of the paths that led away. Maybe he'd had a normal day and was already at home, sleepy from two beers, trying to stay awake until Richie called as he always did on a Thursday night. Maybe he'd walked past everything without a second thought. Maybe.
Maybe though, he'd made it past the coffee place to the dry cleaner who always "lost" her clothes and not his. Maybe he'd made it to the office this afternoon too and finally tried to clear out his middle desk drawer where she'd always left post it notes for him, just a little something to make him laugh. Maybe she'd turn around right now and he'd be here, following her breadcrumb trail to the place where they first learned to be at ease with each other. If he could just find his way here she'd know she wasn't alone in this. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against cool glass.
"Min? I got you one of those coffees. The barista remembered what kind, which is good 'cause I can't remember it and I'd be too embarrassed to ask."
Mindy let out a breath, turned toward the door, and opened her eyes.
Notes: It's a horrible thing to face the pieces of someone after they're gone. I hope that ended with a little note of hope.
I might have been tipsy writing this and I traditionally lean heavily on dialogue so it's not as tight as I'd like, but I've gotta get this angst out of my system so I can start writing for Operation Tonic Water: PM me if you want info.
Thanks to Calliope_Soars and HelenVanPattersonPatton for their beta skills. Comments are always appreciated.