God, how I hate her.
How deeply I hate the way she stalls like this.
We have shit to do, things to get done. We don't have time for this crap. I rap my nails against her windowsill, my hand propping my head up as I stare at her, agitated.
I hate how she wastes precious time with things that don't matter.
She sits at her desk, book scattered amongst seas of papers with words and numbers meant to symbolize things I can't be bothered with. She claims it's important, that "the rest of her life is at stake." Keh. How could these papers dictate the entirety of her remaining life-span. She should be worried about what's happening on the other side of the well, you know, where shit that's actually important is happening.
The quiet in the room is maddening as she pours over these books: reading, scribbling – more reading, a pause, more pencil strokes. I let out a frustrated sigh and my bangs flutter in an annoyed whirlwind over my face. She shoots me a sideways glance from under her glasses.
I hate how she won't take a hint – or maybe how she chooses to just never listens. Either is infuriating.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and twirls the pencil in a dance between her fingers. The wooden dancer pauses momentarily in her thought and then continues again. I carve swirls and circles into the paint of her windowsill. My ears twitch from the scratching of the paint and wood underneath my fingertips. I hear her pencil slam to the table as she sends me a piercing glare.
"Could you please be quiet? I'm trying to study, Inuyasha."
Keh. I hate how she scolds me – I'm centuries older, she's the child to be chided here.
"Maybe if you didn't take all damn day, wench."
Her brow furrows – I hate that too. She can't stand when I call her that. That'll teach her to waste our time.
"You don't have to stay. You're more than welcome to leave." She turns back to her studies, shaking her head in frustration. My lip twitches with words I want to say, but bite back. Arguing will only inspire her to go slower. I cross my arms and lean my head back. I can see the stars from here, burning white against a navy sky.
I know I could leave. My time would be better spent back home. But I can't leave. I hate her for it. Being here in her time is infuriating and yet for some reason I stay.
She closes one book and my ears perk in expectation. I look out of the corner of my eyes. Damn it. She reaches for a new book and replaces the old book with that one.
I look at her from the corner of my eyes still, taking a moment while she can't see me staring. I don't need her wasting my time with unnecessary assumptions.
Her black hair falls in ribbons, ringlets of midnight ink down her back and spilling over her shoulder. Her black glasses that she only ever wears to study perched lightly on her nose. She sits in her chair, one leg tucked under her, the other extending tauntingly to the floor, her satin skin bare in those too-short-but-its-whatever shorts and her torso covered in a blue t-shirt. I'll admit, she's not bad – you know, for a wench.
I hate it.
I hate how I find myself taking these stolen moments to look at her, my eyes hungry as if I don't see her every day – as if I've never taken the sight of her in before. We have a mission to accomplish. Things like this are irrelevant and we have no time for them. Not that I would take the time for them if there was. Keh.
She chews her lip, concentrating on something. I hate her human frivolities.
She writes a few more things down on her page before smiling triumphantly and throwing her pencil down on the desk.
"There," she says, pleased with herself, "all done!"
"About time," I mutter. She hums happily, stretching, her fingers interlocked as she raises them over her head. I look sideways again to see her shirt rise, exposing her stomach in a wide, satin ribbon. I find a part of me hunger. I squander it as quickly as it conceived itself.
God, how I hate her.
She stands up and gathers all of her books into a neat pile, her papers filed away into their proper locations. She picks up her stack of books and sashays over to her bookshelf.
I hate how she's so slow. I hate how she makes me wait for her pointless human things.
She reaches to put the books back in their places, a slot just slightly out of her reach. She stands on her tiptoes and makes frustrated sounds as she tries desperately to return the books home.
I hate how frail she is, how weak, incapable, how painfully human.
I look back at the stars. One shoots across the sky in an arc of crystal light. I wish for something before my mind can stop me.
God, how I hate her.
I say it over and over again, turning it over a thousand ways until it becomes a mantra in my head. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.
A loud crash rings through the room, followed by the thud of books on the floor. I stand up in alarm, looking at her. There she lays, sprawled in the floor in a frail, uncoordinated, albeit beautiful mess in the floor. Her glasses are tilted on her face, her face wide in shock. I find myself snorting, laughing at her clumsy, graceless self. Her face changes from embarrassment to anger in a moment's time. Her hands ball into little fists and heat bursts across her face.
Shit.
"Sit!"
A second later, I find myself face first in the floor. I curse her under my breath with ever curse I know, a few I make up when those don't do good enough.
God, how I hate her.
She laughs, full and deep and real, her hands over her belly. I hate how she's so amused by this. She laughs harder, wiping a tear from her eye.
She's beautiful.
I hate her.
After a moment, though, I find myself laughing too – not too much, but it happens. And, for a moment, we're there in her room, both messy piles on the floor, laughing with each other at the other's pain and embarrassment. It's fun and infuriating all at once.
God, how I hate her…
… for all the ways I love her.