A/N — Written for round 11 of QL with the optional prompts [quote] "I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too." — Pablo Neruda, [word] frost, and [word] shatter.
Also written for Astronomy: write about a problem that frequently haunts someone.
[1000 words]
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
.oOo.
First time he saw her she was dancing alone, eyes closed and hips swaying, completely oblivious to the looks everyone was shooting her way. She didn't care, and he fell in love with her a little just for that.
He saw her there almost every Wednesday bight after that. She was always alone, but that was the only constant about her. He could never find an excuse to approach her, to talk to her, until the last Wednesday of October, several months after he first saw her.
She bumped into his table, spilling his drink, beer steadily dripping down onto the garish carpet. She just stood, staring at the shattered glass for a moment, before bursting into tears. He jumped up immediately.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, hesitating a moment before pulling up a dry chair from the empty table next to theirs. She shook her head but collapsed into the seat. "Do you need something?"
She stopped crying almost instantly, staring at him with abrupt seriousness. "I need another drink," she said, and clung to him for the rest of the night.
(Only later would he notice the ring on her finger.)
.oOo.
Winter frost was beginning to thaw into spring the next time he actually spoke to her, though he had continued to see her nearly every week.
"Have you been to New York?" she slurred, dropping down into the empty seat beside him. He stared at her in confusion, surprised, her sudden arrival having drawn the attention of the entire table. She stared at him expectantly for a few beats more, until eventually he shook his head. "You should go," she said, leaning closer imploringly, eyes wide.
She then pulled out a pen and proceeded to draw a map on his arm, most of the lines a little wobbly and the writing nearly unintelligible.
"What's this?" he asked, gesturing to an upside down triangle, but she just shushed him and continued on with her work.
(He never did find out exactly what the map had been of, but he saved pictures on his phone.)
.oOo.
"You should smile more," she said, leaning over his shoulder only a week later, her lips pulled into an exaggerated pout. "Otherwise you're no fun." And then she leant forward and threw up all over his lap and food.
"I don't feel good," she whimpered in his ear, her breath stinking of vomit and chunks of it caught in her hair.
"Yeah, I can see that," he muttered as he awkwardly shifted around until he was standing and she was sitting in his chair.
"You're being really mean," she slurred, leaning over and throwing up again all over his new shoes.
"I'm sorry," he said, crouching down to her level. "Where do you live?" At her blank look, he added: "Do you know your address? I can take you home."
"No no no no no," she said, wiping her mouth and pressing the same hand to his lips. He gagged, but managed to hold himself together. She handed him her phone instead, though it took nearly an hour to coax out of her who he needed to call.
(And that was the one and only time he met her husband; a tall, thin man with a permanent sneer who didn't seem at all pleased to be collecting his wife at ten o'clock on a Wednesday evening.)
.oOo.
He didn't see her at all for a few weeks after that, and when she did return she seemed somewhat subdued. She still swayed to the music, but it was less carefree. A little over an hour later, he approached her for the first time.
"Are you okay?" he asked, wincing at his question.
She looked up at him and nodded, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes tugging up the corners of her lips.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I have to leave now. I have an appointment I need to keep."
He couldn't help the gnawing worry that her sudden departure was his fault, but he pushed the feeling down in an attempt to enjoy the rest of his night.
(It didn't work, and he wound up leaving soon after, but he had an early start at work the next morning so no one was overly bothered.)
.oOo.
The next week it was as if nothing had happened, though he had quickly become used to her rollercoaster-like emotions.
"Come dance," she said, pulling at his hand in an effort to drag him from his seat. He shook his head quickly. As much as he loved watching her dance, he didn't want to join her. It felt as though that might ruin the beauty of the moment — distract her from wherever it was she distanced her mind to while she danced — and he could never do that.
She pouted but left him to his meal, dancing by herself between the tables.
He spent most of the night watching her rather than focussing on the conversations going on at his table, but that had become the norm for whenever she was there.
(Later, when he thought back on it, he couldn't remember her having on a ring, but then he couldn't remember the absence of one either.)
.oOo.
She approached slowly, lemonade in hand. Now that he thought about it, this was the first time he'd seen her forgo alcohol.
"Hi, um …" she said softly, eyes downcast; shy was never a side of her he'd seen before, but he found it oddly endearing. "I'm really sorry about before … um …"
"Dudley," he said, holding out his hand. She smiled gently, taking his offered hand.
"Cho," she said, and it felt like a new beginning, like meeting her all over again, only this time was much better than the first.