Green eyes, from above, it felt like she was soaring, that her entire world was centered upon those eyes, her face, that smile. She wasn't lying when she said it was the happiest memory she had ever had in her life or at least, it was the happiest she had been in the last five years. Kuvira had snorted unkindly upon hearing. She regretted telling Kuvira that. Or did she regret saying it out loud, thereby making it true? Kuvira shakes off her damp hair ducking into the smoking shelter behind her. They had just finished dinner in the facility and were allowed some resting time before lights out. The darkness was already clinging to them like the wet inkiness as they both stepped out past the soaking garden their shoes slipping slightly on the grass.

She had been sober for eight months now and while each day was easier, each night was still the same dreading lifeless dream. The same crawl in her teeth that she had suffered from the first few weeks of withdraw. Sometimes she wakes up from them; recognises where she is but then half awake she panics still unable to accept the last few years of her life. All of them lost, bled into the washy eternally hazy mirrors that always had a crack of drugs or whiskey spilled across it.

Green eyes, from above gazing down she had been filled with the certainty that this was it. It never failed to take her breath away. The same smile of red full lips, her pale hand with those long fingers that seemed to paint kisses softly on her cheek before burying herself into that slender shade of the shoulder like she had done so many times before.

Incredible isn't it? Kuvira said as the both of them took turns passing a cigarette between their shaking hands while they stood shivering. She had come here in spring, it was now the rainy dread of autumn. Despite the fact that they were standing on gorgeous acres of land of a country mansion where their private medical centre was, the institution had obviously thought "fuck it" when it came to the smoking shelter. A wet ragged raindrop fell through the tiny hole above and dropped right onto her forehead. Korra rubbed it away frustratingly. They said this was the best rehab for her, private, isolated, away from press, society and more importantly, away from her enablers, her dealers, her toxic habits. The alcohol. The drugs. The bottles. The endless nameless women-

Did you miss it? Someone had asked her that when they recognised her.

Incredible that society expected them to recover, to produce, to be fine, to be functional after a minimum of twelve weeks. This was Kuvira's first time, she had OD-ed and her husband, a rather quiet looking man had dropped by with divorce papers the other day. Korra always tried to avoid looking at Kuvira's hands, or her arms. Unlike her own Kuvira's arms were inkless but Korra was scared because she knew, further up would show the same self anger she had placed inside herself.

Between cigarettes, decaffeinated coffee or green tea and the occasional curse word begging for a drink Kuvira's story fell like the ash from the lit end. She was a lawyer, partner at twenty-eight, working for the city's most prestigious consultancy firms, one of the biggest. She had married the boss's son. She was the best pro bono lawyer for three years running. She had the largest billable hours. She closed each and every one of her court appearances and was known for her no bullshit attitude especially with tough clients. Pre-nup? She'll settle it before the blond even finds out you're actually balding. Settlements? Let's talk over dinner. Bitter ex-wife? Give her half an hour and you'll be sending her an invitation to the wedding at the same time. She seemed proud of her nickname. The Great Uniter. She had smirked remembering that.

But it wasn't enough. Somehow her marriage wasn't enough. She wasn't enough. They had wanted children. She started drinking, it complicated their pregnancy tries, and he lied. The bastard. That's what she calls him. Never by name. Although Korra thought Bataar and Bastard sounded quiet similar. Her mother-in-law was behind it. Kuvira was sure. They needed an heir to their little fucked up family empire she would repeat stubbing out cigarette after cigarette. And while Kuvira never said it, Korra coudl sense enough to keep her silence. Both of them were reluctant to join in with the sharing and the therapy at the rehab. And the mutual reluctance translated to an agreeable relationship between being forced to meditate and medicate.

Incredible, yes. Believable no.

Green eyes.

Did she miss it?

She shivered; another raindrop crawled down her collar. Kuvira flickered the butt away through impatient fingers.

In Republic City, Asami kisses her daughter to sleep, smoothing the black wavy hair away from her child's face before dimming the nightlight. She puts the storybook The Very Hungry Caterpillar on the bedside table and picks her way over the carpet of toys before leaving the door open a crack. Without looking back she knows the very large white dog will poke her nose through the gap before crawling into the sheets next to her child. Snuffling. Sleeping in familiar comfort. She had long stopped trying to get Naga to sleep in the dog basket.

Five years.

Blue eyes. From below, it was like falling upwards, being pulled towards the waterfall that fell towards the eternal sky.

She had met Korra at the auction. The young woman who was being lauded beyond the art circles; she had made the cover of the Republican because her art was nothing but explosive. It was transcendent and yet loyal to her culture, her heritage, the sculptures that seemed to be a mixture of all the elements of life and came alive like her smile, which was so nervous and eager at the same time. The kind of artist she had never met or would ever meet again. She was so unlike the tight gang of high society...she made art not because she could or for fame or because she went to a prestigious art school...she made art because she wanted to and it made people happy.

Asami remembered as she uncorked the bottle how shocked the audience was as the bronze girl hopped up happily, dressed in her overalls and thanked everyone before praising her friend's piece during her award speech and hopping off as quickly to a round of scattered shock applause. Asami's included. She donated to the museum, or well, her father did and she attended on his behalf; it was a regular benefit auction but the usual champers and canapés this was not. Korra had saved her after she had her annual tussle with Lau Gang Lang Jr no I will not go out for dinner with you...again and taking her hand she had pulled her headfirst into the security tunnels that ran all around after Asami admitted to never having seen The Water Tribe girl at Full Moon.

Five years was more than enough time to get over someone. Somehow while she would never trade the wonderful experience of being a mother. Asami still dreamt of all those nights, five years ago. Of rushing wildly into Korra's world, the rumbling through artist studios, apartments, clubs, dancing at 3am in the morning to Beyonce, singing at the top of their lungs at Korra's birthday while the snow fell all around them and finally, ending, like it always did looking above into those blue eyes. Watching as that crooked smile spread. It always made her feel like she was the only person in the world, everything would quiet, even her heart, slowly, comfortably, resting, side by side.

Honey? A voice said. He was home late again. She had fallen asleep on the sofa. She mumbled something, eyelids flicking before turning her cheek away from his mouth. He barely noticed and just walked straight past their daughter's room. Five years, marriage and somehow even though she looked with love into amber eyes she hated herself for wishing they were blue.

The blue was gone. It had been gone even before she left. And when she left there was nothing to leave. Korra was drunk, high or always a combination of looking for the next jump, the next flight, the next run into oblivion.

Note: The Republican is suppose to be my take on The New Yorker