She's got this look on her face and he knows something's wrong. Now it's just a matter of getting it out of her. He's got to use his imagination. She'll close up if he's too forward but she won't say anything if he doesn't.
"What's wrong?"
Good job, genius. She cocks her head to the side, brow crumpled, lips twisted into a slight pout, raw from teeth gnawing at them for hours. She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. She sighed. It's that frustrated "god-you're-insensitive, don't-be-such-a-dick" sigh.
Yeah, he can read her.
Yeah, he knows her that well.
Well, shouldn't he know the woman he's been fucking for the past three months?
"Nothing."
He drops his hands down to his sides, bored, tired of games, tired of guessing, tired of not knowing. He runs a hand through his short bleach blond hair, tugging slightly. God, why does he do that do her? Make her feel guilty for not wanting to talk. She doesn't want to talk. Not about this.
"I can't fix it if you don't tell me what's wrong."
She laughs. It's sad and dark, almost a scoff. He's stupid for thinking he can fix everything. Not everything is that simple. It's not kindergarten and things aren't fixed with band-aids and kisses and promises that booboos will get better. It's not middle school where things are made better with gallons of chocolate ice cream and sleepovers and hours of chick flicks. It's not high school where you can just buy flowers and make out in the back of his truck for hours and then go get Frosties at Wendy's at midnight.
"You can't fix it. It's not that simple."
He tosses his hands in the air, aggravated, flustered by her words. Jesus Christ, he knows it's not that simple. It never is with her. Life isn't black and white, he's figured that much out. He may not be bright, but he knows that life is the biggest fucking grey area and simple is not a word that should exist in the English language.
"Can't you just talk to me?"
"Talk?"
She stares him square in the eye; it's intense, as if she's burning a hole right through him.
"You want to talk?"
He nods. Does she not speak English? Did he not just say that?
"Talk to me."
He grabs her hand, trying to tug her towards him, but she resists, stands still. He lets go and sighs.
"Stop sighing," she orders. "You sound bored with me."
"Bored? Christ, Maureen, I'm so busy trying to keep you happy and figure you out, I've no time to be fucking bored with you. I don't know what you want from me. It was so easy when we started. I'd take you out, we'd get drunk and fuck all night. But now you're just… so far away. Off in your own world. What do you want from me?"
"Is that all I am? Just a drunk fuck?"
That backfired.
"Someone to go to when you can't find anyone else? An easy lay?" Her hands reach out and she shoves him. It's a lot harder than she'd meant it to be and he stumbles backwards, heel catching on the metal table, and he nearly trips.
Her eyes are wide as he steadies himself and he comes after her. She winces, braced for a blow in return. His fingers clasp onto her shoulders and he shakes her lightly. It's not hard and it doesn't hurt. He doesn't hit her. It was never about the sex. Okay, so maybe at first it was. She was the best lay he'd ever had. So good he went back for more. And more. But she's got this smell, like strawberry ice cream, sweet and clean and its stuck on his shirts and he can't get away from it. And there's that way that her dark hair tickles under his chin and around his neck when she sprawls across his chest, naked and tired. He loves the way her hand fits in his, hers small and dainty, his big and protective, tips calloused from guitar strings. She's got that hair flip, too, when she's listening to him babble or fuck around on the guitar, playing absolute shit but she thinks it's great. She just tosses her curls back and tucks it behind an ear. It's not the sex. Hell, it never was. It's just her. Always was.
"You were never a drunk fuck," he states, staring at her, deep green eyes burning holes through her forehead cause she's staring at her feet. "It's you. Just you. All I want, all I need. Now please, just talk to me."
She rips her eyes from the floor and they finally meet his. They're wide and shiny and full of something he's never seen before. Fear. Her lip quivers and she allows her body to collapse into his arms, lets down her guard, and he catches her and holds her, breathing in that strawberry and it's just short of intoxicating and she's crying. God, she's crying. His rough thumb sweeps across her cheek, brushing a stray tear.
"What? Christ, what is it? What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry." She's sobbing, close to hysterics. "I'm so sorry."
"Just talk."
She takes a shaky breath and pulls away from him, pushing his hands away and he has to wonder what's wrong with him, why he can't hold her and tell her everything will be okay. Her eyes run across his face and she opens her mouth. He strains his ears and awaits her explanation impatiently.
"I'm late."