When I wake I see his face, vulnerable and open. His eyes are closed and he breathes softly, like a baby. I love him more at this moment than any other. I know that once he opens his eyes I won't see Trowa; I'll see the man Trowa has created. Even I, after five years of sharing a life with him, don't know him.
Sometimes that depresses me. I'll sit in the bay window on the hard blue cushion and stare out at our small garden. I tried planting flowers one year, red and white tulips, but they died in a sudden frost. I didn't bother trying again. So I stare at the empty dirt, drawing my knees close to my chest, fingering the chain around my neck that holds the opal pendant he gave me when he asked me to marry him. That was two years ago, and the longer the engagement goes on the more I hesitate to set the date.
This morning we slept in, and so the sun falls on the few inches of space between our faces. It looks like a shaft of light glowing from within the bed. I put my hand on it, feeling the warmth. I want to touch his face, but I know he'll wake up the moment I do, and I don't want him to. I hold my hand splayed out, like a spider.
Once we had a purpose, a meaning, a clear-cut, black and white view of life. We received orders and carried out missions without much thought to what went on outside of the barracks. But when the war ended a year ago so did our tiny view on life. Suddenly we had to find meaning in mundane office jobs, driving a car, find satisfaction in socializing with other people. Any relationship would suffer during that adjustment period, but we came out of it stronger. Instead of assignments, we had each other.
But now, as I look at my hand that can't move to his face because it might wake him and then I won't be able to see the real Trowa, I know there's something wrong with this situation. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with a man that I will never know? I want a family, and children, and grandchildren. I see no other way to scrounge out satisfaction from this transient life.
When we were pilots we had too many distractions for me to notice his incredible inability to reveal himself. I only found that out once I craved a deeper connection, once I had nothing to occupy my time but him. I don't know if he feels the same. I don't even know if he realizes he's doing anything to bother me. I haven't spoken to him about it because I'm afraid of what he might say. He might say he's doing it on purpose, keeping me out because he doesn't trust me enough. Or love me enough.
The sun moves slowly across the bed and onto my pillow. I roll over and close my eyes, pulling the blankets up to my chin so I look like a baby in a papoose. Trowa shifts slightly, and I imagine him turning onto his back. He'll have his right hand folded over his chest, the left hanging off the edge of the bed. I know that, but I don't know why he never cries at funerals. I have seen him smile when he watches a child playing in the park, but I have never seen him express anger. Am I selfish for wanting to know him as well as I know myself? For wanting as much from a relationship as I give? He knows me as well as I know myself—there is literally nothing that I hide from him, no part of me that he hasn't experienced.
I can't sleep. I unwrap myself and slide from the bed, careful not to move it too much. I'm sure he knows I've gotten up, but he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. It's 8 AM, and he's going to sleep for another 30 minutes. Like all the rest of us, his inner alarm clock is punctual.
I throw on the robe that hangs on the back of our door, the red cashmere one next to his blue, and go downstairs to make breakfast. On the weekends I always make pancakes, and he eats one plain and one chocolate with strawberries and whipped cream on top. It's our "fun" meal of the week.
This morning I can't shake the unnerved feeling I have. As I gather the pots I bang them around harder than usual. I put the silverware on the table forcefully, like I want to imprint them in the wood. Even the pancakes come out crispier than normal, and I sympathize. It's like I've got a little fizzy bit inside, and it's not settling down. I want something, but I don't know what. It's infuriating.
I hear his footsteps, quiet as a burglar's, as I'm flipping the last two cakes.
"Morning," he greets, kissing me on the back of the head and sitting down at the table. We only have two chairs, since no one ever stays over for meals anymore. We took away the extra two after they began reminding us of times that were so cherished they became painful as memories.
"Morning," I say back, as I do every Saturday. It used to soothe me, this routine. It was what I knew, familiar, comfortable. But not today. I stay silent as I finish the pancakes, scoop them up, and pile them on top of the stack on a big white plate. I've chopped up the strawberries and put them, the pancakes, and a bottle of whipped cream on the table. He's reading the paper, like we're just another normal couple home on a Saturday morning. I sit down, lean back in my chair, and stare a hole through the Prime Minister's black and white face. What is wrong with me? Why is his reading the paper making me so angry?
He turns the page, and our eyes catch briefly. "What's the matter?" He asks from behind the newspaper.
It's like God came down and wiped off the dirt from my personal windshield. Suddenly everything makes sense, like my mind had sat in a fog all morning and now it had burned off. All it took was a damn newspaper hiding his face.
When I don't answer, he puts down the paper, picks up his fork, and piles strawberry onto his plain pancake. I count out two squirts of whipped cream in my mind before he does it. He glances up as he slices off a piece of pancake. I nearly falter when I see those beautiful eyes, colored like light green leaves right after they bloom in the spring. They never change. They always have a confident, gentle look, a look that makes you think of enveloping yourself in a warm, protective blanket. And when he smiles and that carefully cultivated spark strikes in his eyes, you think of slow dancing on a moonlit balcony in Tuscany with a violinist playing Bach.
"I'm leaving you." I say it in the same voice as I would tell him the dishwasher's acting up again.
I look closely at his eyes, watching for some flare of panic, some indication of hurt, pain, vulnerability. I see only confusion as he puts down his fork.
"What?" he says.
I'm not prepared for this. No one gave me a briefing on how to break up with someone.
"I need to think about some things," I say firmly, deciding to sound exactly the opposite of how I'm feeling. An idea comes to me. "I'm staying with Maldren for a little while."
He pushes back his chair and stands up, his eyes still cool and sure. "No."
"She's out of the hospital and needs someone to watch her."
"You tried that before."
"And I'm going to try again."
"Why do you have to leave me to do that?"
I rub my face with my hands, wanting this to be over with. I'm not very good at confrontations.
"That's not why I'm leaving. That should be obvious."
Absurdly, he takes his plate to the sink and starts washing it.
"Put the cakes in the garbage," I say out of habit. " The disposal always gets br—"
"Is there someone else?" he asks quietly. It's always quiet with him, always so damn quiet!
"No," I say hotly, wishing he could say a sentence with the same emotion that I just did.
"Then what is it?"
I make a frustrated noise. "Do you have any idea how hard it is living with a man who can't shout?"
He turns around. His hands are wet and soapy, and he's drying them with a towel. The plate is in the drying rack. "You want me to shout at you?" he asks in that infuriatingly cool voice.
"That's not the point," I say, starting to pace. "I want you to show emotion. Just a little, something, anything." I stop and stare at him. "When was the last time you felt angry?"
The look that I've dubbed "uncomfortable" flits across his face. It consists of a slight bunching of the eyebrows and a miniscule tilt downwards on the right side of his mouth. People who don't know him well don't notice the change.
"It's pointless to feel angry when you can't do anything about it," he answers. He puts the towel down without dropping my gaze.
"It's like talking to Ghandi, or Buddha," I mutter, grabbing my plate. He moves over, leaning against the side of the counter. I'm furiously scrubbing the clean plate. He puts his hand out.
"Larissa—"
"Don't," I say, shrugging my shoulder away. He quietly retreats back a few steps, still staring. I want him to try again, to grab me, clench my arm in his hand and force me to stop washing the dish. But he just watches me.
"Stop looking at me with those one-tone eyes of yours," I say. "I feel like a bug under a microscope."
"I'm trying to understand what's going on."
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" I slam the plate into the drying rack, wipe my hands on the towel, fold them over my chest, and stare at him. "I don't know you, Trowa. I know your name. I know you like pancakes on Saturday morning—wait—I don't even know that. All I know is that you tolerate pancakes on Saturday morning. You tolerate watching Portal on Monday nights. You tolerate using cold water instead of hot in the washer. You tolerate me living with you. You tolerate me, actually. That's all I know."
He says nothing. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome features.
"Don't know what to say? What a surprise." I walk out of the room. I walk up to our room and take out the small suitcase from the closet. I'm packing socks when he comes to the door, but I don't stop.
"Think about this," he says.
"Why don't you get angry?" I shout suddenly, spinning around. I'm wild with anger, pent up and bubbling like a cauldron. 'Why don't you yell at me, curse at me for ruining your life, for breaking your heart, for running off with another man, anything?" I feel tears start to well up, but I force them down with the same ferocity as I force open the top drawer of the bureau. "Why, Trowa? Why is that so hard? Am I not worth it?"
I regret the words as soon as I say them. I wanted to avoid sounding selfish and narcissistic, but there they are. Floating out in the room, waiting to be grabbed up and used against me. God, I feel so pathetic right now.
"It's not you," he says.
"Right, it's not me, it's you. I know. Got that one down." I laugh derisively, but it's a short harsh bark. "Oh yeah, got that one down nice and good."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I was stupid and thought I could work through it but I can't and now we're here," I say in one breath. "And yes, it's my fault that it's gotten this bad. But it's not all my fault," I add, throwing in a black sweater. "I've tried giving you subtle hints. Like when we were watching that movie last week, what was it?"
"Backwater."
"Right. That one about the kids. No clear cut answer, no happy ending. I asked you what you thought. And you said—"
"It's just a movie. It's not important. And then you said you didn't agree, that movies can deal with pertinent human issues, drama, emotions."
"And then…." I prompt.
"And then I went to bed. I was tired."
"Exactly!" I punctuate my words with a jabbing finger. "You avoided the whole damn conversation. You never engage with others when it threatens your massive shields. You're like a damn castle, you know that? A moat, soldiers with arrows, guards ready to dump boiling tar on anyone who gets close. Christ, how did I not see this before?"
"I'm not saying I express myself well all the time—"
'None of the time, you mean. Trowa," I pause with a sneaker in hand and look at him. "I need passion. Someone who can open up to me fully. Hold nothing back. I give my whole self to you, and I need you to give me the same in return. If it's not a fair exchange then…"
I trail off and he doesn't fill in the silence. He never does. I go back to packing, and he watches me the entire time, not moving from the doorway. I want him to storm in, grab my suitcase, and throw it across the room. I want him to bar the door, grab me and hold me to keep me from leaving.
When I finish and go to the door, he hesitates and then moves out of the way. I want to shove him down the stairs.
"I love you," he says softly. We look at each other briefly, but I can't hold his steadfast, distant gaze. I have a sinking feeling I'm about to cry. He touches my shoulder. "Please don't go to Maldren's."
"I'll call you in a few days," I say, not certain I will. I've shut off the part of my mind that thinks that far ahead. Not an easy task, but in order for me to physically leave the presence of the man who's been at my side for five years, I have to sacrifice some automated functions.
"Okay," he says. That gets me through the front door and into the car. It's a small red Kia, and I shove the suitcase into the passenger seat. I realize I forgot my purse when Trowa comes to the window and holds it up. Pink with rage-filled embarrassment and pent-up tears, I open the door and yank it from him.
"Call in a few—"
I slam the door on his words. I pull out, not looking at him or our lovely white house with the picket fence. I believed that picture-perfect house held my future. Now it's like someone scrawled all over it with a black marker.