Just a little one-shot!
"There is no why, since the moment simply is, and since all of us are simply trapped in the moment, like bugs in amber."
— Kurt Vonnegut
Chopped vegetables cover the counter, and the spaghetti's almost done.
(He never remembers.)
James should be home from work any second, an unexpected night shift and a long day on top of it; he'll be hungry, he'll want to eat right away. Juliet's been home since three this afternoon. She finished reading her first edition of Carrie, again; folded the last of the clean laundry, again - except his Bulldog sweatshirt is still dirty, but then it always is, isn't it?
The door clicks closed and the floor creaks and she turns slowly, the smile spreading across her face, the one she can never quite prevent, despite it all. James is standing there in his paisley shirt, the sleeves rolled loosely to the elbows. The dimples appear on each side of his face. "Somethin' smells good."
"Hey there." She carries the pot from the stove to the sink, draining the pasta, the steam rises up against her face. The smile is too strong now; she has to turn and look, she has to, she has to.
(He never remembers.)
But there he is, raising the flower. This time it's a bright red poppy.
"Is that for me?" she asks softly.
"You were amazin' today," he tells her, stepping forward, gathering her up.
Of course she could tell him right now. It's not like she's never tried that. It's never helped, though. "Thank you for believing in me" is what she says, so she says it.
"Ah," he scoffs quietly, rocking back and forth with her.
(Fifteen times they've stood here, said these things. Fifteen times she's delivered Amy's baby, and she already knows he will be named Ethan even though she doesn't find that out until tomorrow. Tonight is the last night Juliet and James will sleep before they come.)
He pulls back from her, just enough to kiss her, and she closes her eyes and kisses him back.
(Sometimes she hits the bomb and sometimes she doesn't. Turns out, it doesn't seem to matter.)
When they pull apart she touches his lips with her index finger. A red poppy. She's never had a poppy before. Yellow daisies, white daisies, anthuria, jacaranda, once an orchid. But they've started to run together in her memory. Was it an anthurium last time, or a daisy?
(Sometimes they are engaged and sometimes they haven't even discussed it. Twice now they've managed to get married on jaunts to Tahiti. Sometimes she's pregnant but more often the Dharma doctor tells her he's so sorry, she can't have children. It's the island, she wants to scream at him; never does. Of course, there are a lot of things she wants to tell everyone.)
But now she looks at James and she knows how short their time is running. It's all a colossal joke, of course: She's got nothing but time, will be right here again and again, apparently. His hands are clasped at the small of her back and she looks right into his eyes like absolutely none of this is a lie. Which it is, and isn't.
"I love you," she tells him, stroking the back of his hair, and it doesn't matter how many times she's said it before. She means it the same, every single fucking time.
James smiles a little, gloating almost, because to him, they have each other and they have all the time in the world. "I love you too," he answers.
(She will always drink Richard Alpert's orange juice.)