a/n: if you understand this, hats off to you, because I have zero clue what this is. I haven't written in a year and a half. Be gentle. Or not.
red lipstick
She loses her red lipstick the day after she buys it.
She loses her sister's ring the third day she's had it,
and she loses her best sweater after one year of owning it.
She loses and she's lost, very, very lost - like Alice in her Wonderland and the Mad Hatter in his mind. Her spine cracks as she lies tangled in her white bedsheets, too tired to get up but not tired enough to go to sleep. Inbetween.
Inbetween, she thinks, yes that's what she is.
Not lost. Just inbetween.
Not old enough, not young enough, not pretty enough for that, too pretty this. Not smart enough for that, too smart for this. Somewhere between this and that became lost, but now that she re-thinks, it much more inbetween.
She kicks her freckled legs out of the duvet and pushes back the sheer curtains to see another grey sky.
Dominique pulls her blonde hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, her spine creaking as she makes her way to the kitchen. His mug is left on the kitchen counter, but her lip mark stains the rim. The red lipstick, she muses, the one she can't find.
The coffee inside is ice cold, and she tries to remember if he left it there the night before or the night before last, but she realizes time is irrelevant.
It's too dark.
It's darker than midnight, she thinks, and she doesn't like dark. She doesn't like dark thoughts or dark skies or the dark she gets from the inbetween and she's not sure if he's coming back again and that makes her feel black inside.
Like the coffee in the mug. Like the stains on the carpet.
She makes her way over to the counter, getting another mug from the top shelf. She has to stand on the tops of her toes and she curses herself yet again for the putting the mugs on the top shelf. She grinds her own coffee beans because noise is good for drowning out thoughts, and she sips even if she never really did like the bitter taste.
There's a knock on the door, and she stands to open it. There's Scorpius, there he is, maybe he's coming to put his mug in the dishwasher.
He kisses her, inbetween gently and fiercely, and she kisses him back. He whispers sorry, sorry against her skin like a mantra. She hears him but she's not listening today.
She's inbetween forgiving and holding on.
Maybe, she thinks as she watches him, maybe her lipstick isn't lost. Maybe it's just inbetween her knowing where it was and knowing where it is.
Maybe she'll find it tomorrow.
a/n: well, hopefully it wasn't a complete waste of your time! Review if you feel like it. I'd appreciate it.