It had started as lunch.
It wasn't supposed to become habit, but in the way that all creatures crave the familiar, they had made it routine, and now they were powerless to break out of it, lest they have to think.
It had been so easy in the beginning, like brushing your teeth, or tying your shoes. This, this returning to something you once knew.
The first time had been three weeks ago, while Lauren was in Washington. He had stood at her elbow, and asked if she wanted to grab some Chinese at the local buffet.
Sure, she'd smiled at him, and his eyes had crinkled ever so slightly at the corners. It was like before.
The restaurant was seedy, to say the least, but she didn't feel cheap. She just felt… good. He was there. He was paying attention to her. And she liked it.
By the end of the meal, she could almost forget the gold band on his finger, and she teased him: Don't forget, you have to add 'in bed' at the end of your fortune—what does yours say?
A moment of hesitation passed over his face, and he read, in strange, strangled voice, You will soon reconnect with an old friend… in bed.
There was a beat of silence, and she said lightly, Well, Lauren's coming home this weekend, right?
They carefully avoided eye contact and he nodded.
Halfway back to the office, he had pulled over to the side of the road, underneath a jacaranda tree. They were totally still and quiet for a minute before he spoke.
Syd, I miss you.
Vaughn, don't…I was kidding at the restaurant, you know that.
He shook his head slightly.
I don't want you to be kidding.
He gripped the steering wheel with his left hand, and the leather squeaked slightly under it. The silence was making her uncomfortable. She turned her face to the right and stared at the lavender flowers on the tree. Lavender. It had been Francie's favorite color. She heard him shift in his seat, and the buckle of the seat belt made a tiny, metallic noise.
With that she turned back to him, and as if an invisible hand were moving her forward, she leaned over to him.
Now, she didn't even jump when he opened the door she left unlocked at night, when his footfalls came down her hall to her room. More often than not, he was dressed in running clothes. She tried not to imagine it.
Michael, where are you going?
I can't sleep, I'm gonna run for while.
Be safe.
I know.
They hadn't gone back to the office that afternoon. Instead, they had driven to her place, where they had barely made it inside the door before tumbling in a heap to the carpet, her skirt hiked up around her hips and her hands trembling as she unzipped his pants. She had felt as though she were being swept beneath the ocean, like the undertow had yanked her feet from under her and was dragging her, powerless against its force, out to sea.
Tonight, she lay alone, waiting to see if he would come. She hated that she expected him, waited for him, turned down Marshall's offer of dinner with him and Carrie just in case he came by. Three weeks is not a long time. What is three weeks? 21 days. 504 hours. 30,240 minutes. 1,814,400 seconds, give or take a few.
Just long enough to form a habit.