He watches.
She walks.
~W~
He notices details this time. She is tired but her feet move with frustrated determination, her shoulders slump slightly. A large bright blue bag pulls at her hand to imbalance her walk. The rain soon whispers down and she skips up to the pavement, hurrying. She falls easily into the landscape, merging into the background of the small row of shops. The hood of her long khaki army jacket sheltering her from others as she pulls on the red, worn shelves of the wool jumper that peeks below the dull green. Her black skinny jeans stop with hugging thick socks and trusted black converse. Quietly beautiful, she remains consistently captivating in the callous weather.
He retreats slowly as she enters the laundrette, the warm buzz soothing her rushing mind. A pound coin glistens as she drops it in, pressing buttons , tying a knot across IKEA handles and checking her phone for the time. Keeping it in her hand, she knocks the top corner to her lips and swiftly turns. The sudden action makes his breath catch and he darts out of sight, crouching below the window, knocking over a bin lid in his haste. She moves towards the door and to the direction of the fruit and veg shop. He climbs over to another window and peers through slowly, recognising the absurdity of his actions but being unable to stop.
~W~
He curses as his feet trip over a can, his instinct causing words to spurt out in fuming whispers from his lips. His eyes roam but she doesn't realise, still fumbling with too many books under her arm. She is dressed in work clothes this time, uniformly smart and still, he thinks, still herself. She searches her bag for keys. She sets the books on the floor, placing an unfinished water bottle and library receipts on top as the pen in her hair sways but doesn't give up. Her car beeps farewell and she enters the porch, clutching her belongings and dipping to collect the post. The pen is tugged at, free from duty and her long brown hair falls down in fragile curves. He hears her speak, then giggle, before she drops her bag and runs up the stairs. He waits.
~W~
Her laugh is loud. Exaggerated. Swollen with drink. Her heels tap against the frozen path, wobbling and dainty as she links arms with the girl to her left. He knows her but not the other one. A project for tomorrow. Shushes are exchanged with muffled giggles, and he finds his mouth smiling. He instantly drops the involuntary action; it won't get him anywhere.
The trio round the corner. He moves within the darkness reaching their destination assuredly like ice melting in a summer drink. He watches. She walks ahead. She concentrates on reaching for keys. The two following familiarly behind her into the house, her home.
The lights turn off late and he exhales purposefully, relishing the relief. Tentative footsteps interrupt his reprieve, "Sir?" a voice hesitates.
"Yes." He snaps. "I know"
~W~
The ice continues to form, dutifully clinging and suppressing. She steps out early, slowly, fidgeting with darting eyes. He shrinks to shelter. Soon her feet drum against the frost: fighting, moving, running. He doesn't follow this time. Instinct tells him that this is a new challenge for her, a confidence to grabble with and he gives her freedom. She soon reappears with sweated brow, puffed lungs. His shoulders ease as she winds the white cable around her phone, still blasting out music that he can't recognise. Thirty minutes exactly. Evidence that this is a deliberate decision. He fills with pride. She is doing something. Something.
~W~
She is consumed, once again, by things that need to be dealt with. Her arms form barriers trying to upstage their purpose, holding too many books, bags, work. The door swings open with her foot and she darts inside, only to reappear and load up again: food to put away. Items to be assembled. Books to analyse and work to tick off a list. Her car is dismissed, as is the door as she zooms inside to complete tonight's missions. It isn't enough for him. She was too quick. He didn't see how she was. He didn't see her face enough or notice which scarf she wore. He didn't see her ring.
His eyelids, tired and dry, close down painfully and pause to seek answers. He forces them open but can only watch the cold ground, mocking him with shine and normality. His fists shape and his eyes close determinedly once more. He breathes stiffly, switches them open and he continues. To watch. Her day, her decisions, her life. Watch what he can never have.
~W~
Flushed cheeks from her long walk home remind him of a different time. The pain spikes up again, laboriously picking away at his resolve. She turns into the next street with accomplishment, hopping up to the pavement in her worn work shoes. A red, square bag bangs rhythmically against her back dragging down her left shoulder. She switches the books resting in the crook of her arm to the other and pulls her hand blindly to the bag clasp. He knows she won't look behind her to open it, too impatient to get home and continue her work, but her hand misses. She turns. He is there. He scurries. She freezes, listens, turning her head resolutely. Her brow dents and suddenly she picks up her pace, her bag swinging rapidly to catch up.
He doesn't watch her open the door that night.
~W~