February 29, 2016
Anne is chopping basil leaves on her wooden cutting board when she hears a knock at the door.
She wipes her hands on her apron and crosses the kitchen to the foyer of her apartment, and looks through the peephole.
She sighs, dramatically (only for her own benefit, since it isn't as if he can hear her), unlocks the door but not the chain and says, flatly, "Well, look who decided to show up."
"I'm sorry," Henry says, bouquet of roses in hand, "I know I shouldn't have-"
"I'm making dinner right now. What do you want?" she snaps, putting a hand on one hip.
"I want to apologize and…talk with you."
"You had a week to do that, and you didn't."
"I know, I'm sorry-"
"Sorry doesn't change anything. Flowers don't either," Anne says, coolly, crossing her arms.
"I brought wine," Henry says, displaying the bottle in the air, "please?"
Anne squints at him.
He's dressed in a button down and jeans. No tie. His face is clean shaven, his reddish brown hair gleams in the fluorescent light in the outer hallway.
For some reason his cleanness and put-together look irritates her. It's almost as if he had looked rough, or disheveled, she'd have more sympathy for him.
"Fine," she says with a shrug, "but I'm not stopping what I'm doing for you. If you want to talk it's going to have to be while I cook."
"Fine," Henry says, and she unlatches the chain and lets him in, grabbing the bottle of wine right away.
"Put the flowers wherever," she says, waving her hand in a blasé fashion, "I don't care."
Anne returns to the kitchen, gait quick, sets the wine on the marble countertop, and continues to chop the basil leaves. Into tinier and tinier pieces. Too tiny for caprese salad, really, but, well, her anger has to go somewhere.
"You cut your hair," Henry says, putting his car keys down on the counter, next to the bottle of wine.
She did, on the third day of absolutely no word from him. After the third voicemail she left on his cell. It's curled, nicely, since she had work today, and only just brushes her collarbones, whereas before it reached the small of her back. Anne asked for blue-black highlights, too, to her natural dark brown, but apparently he hasn't noticed.
"That's all you have to say? Really?"
"No," he says, running a hand over his face, "it looks nice, though."
"Well, I didn't do it for you," Anne says, turning around, she opens the fridge and takes out the Roma tomatoes.
Henry, familiar with her kitchen, walks over to the cupboard to the left of the sink, opens the door of it, and extracts a colander from it, handing it to her.
He leans against one of the sinks (it's a double), effectively invading her space as she scoffs, elbows him, and moves the spout to the other sink to rinse the tomatoes before transferring them to the cutting board and selecting a different knife.
Anne turns her back to him as she slices the tomatoes, feels his hand, warm on her shoulder, she shrugs it off and whispers, "Don't, Henry," fiercely, sets the knife down and reaches into the front pocket of her jeans for her hair tie.
"Let me," he says, taking it from her hand, deftly, she feels his hands in her hair, "braid?"
"Bun," she says, shortly, "I want it off my neck."
He gathers it and makes it a high one, atop her head (she's sure it will look irritatingly fantastic as soon as she checks her reflection, he's done her hair before, better than she can, "Four sisters," being his explanation).
Anne feels his fingers, ghosting down the middle of her neck, tracing the bumps of her spine.
He's being an asshole, basically. She knows he knows, from previous experience, that that's one of her…sensitive spots.
He's trying to get her to forgive him by touch alone.
But fuck that, after what she's gone through this week.
"Stop," she says, and he withdraws his hand, replies with a curt, "Fine, Anne. I will."
"Thank you," she says, and takes the knife again, cuts the tops of the tomatoes off and then the rest into careful quarters.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Henry looks for vases, but all she has are empty glass Coca Cola bottles.
He shrugs, and fills a large one up with tap water, walks into the living room and places as many roses as will fit into it on her coffee table, arranging them, carefully.
"I ran into your mother at the grocery store," Anne says, "did you know?"
"No, I haven't been talking to anyone this week."
"Oh," she says, nodding, pouting at the board, she throws the pieces of tomato into a large, glass bowl set on the counter, "y'know, I don't know if I should be more relieved or offended by that. You ignoring me and pretending I don't exist doesn't even make me special or unique, apparently," she says, deadpan, she grabs the small miniature remote atop her microwave and clicks it, and violin music, fierce and in crescendo, emits from the speakers in the living room.
Gotta love open floor plans, Henry thinks wryly.
"Sounds like you've decided to be offended to me," he quips, crossing his legs and leaning back into the couch.
"You're not cute," she says, slamming the door of the fridge, container in one hand.
"That's not what I've heard."
"I asked her if she knew where you were," Anne says, pulling the lid off of the top with a snap, "do you have any," she says, using a large knife to pop the plastic film atop the container, "idea how humiliating that was? To be looked at with such…pity, God."
"What did she say?" he asks, taking a magazine (Elle) off of her coffee table and flipping through it, absently (why so many perfume ads and why any women besides those attracted to other women would be tempted to buy them based on the naked female figuresis beyond him).
"That this a week that you disappear, every year."
"Did she say why?"
The song changes, to something more dulcet, softer, a piano cover, he thinks, River Flows In You or something like that (it's familiar to him, he might've heard it at Arthur's piano recital when he was younger), jarring against the heat and edge of her mood.
"No, she said it was something that wasn't for her to tell. And I told her I understood. Not you, of course, I don't understand you. But that I understood why she couldn't tell me," Anne clarifies, chopping the mozzarella balls furiously (they're soft, Henry knows, and don't require anywhere near the amount of force she's applying to break apart).
"Did she say anything else?"
"Oh, really, Henry," she says, scathingly, she throws all the ingredients together in a bowl, and they land against the glass with a splat, "does it fucking matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm curious."
"So the fuck am I!" she yells, hands on her hips, face red, chest heaving.
"You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
Anne's eyes, impossibly dark and almost always unreadable, go completely and totally blank. The color drains from her face and she walks, slowly, to her stovetop, grabs a bottle of olive oil and tongs from the jar full of utensils by it, and dresses the salad, moving the pieces slowly with the tongs after she pours.
"I said I don't think he cares about me. She said, oh, darling, I think he does. She told me that you talked about how you were going to quit your volunteer job at the zoo, because it was too many hours, until you started talking about a pretty brunette girl that sat in front of the peregrine falcon exhibit every day. And that you then talked about plucking up the courage to talk to her, and how when you did you hardly stoppedtalking about her. She said he cares, of course, but maybe he has trouble showing it and 'I'm sorry for that'. She said she liked me, for myself and that she thought I was good for you, and then she gave me a hug."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Maybe I should date her instead," Anne says, laughing, grinding pepper over the salad.
Henry laughs too, despite himself, throws the magazine back on the table, "Christ!"
"You know," Anne says, tone graver now, he watches as she tugs at the necklace he gave her three months ago (silver, it ends in a locket with the words "le temps viendra" inscribed on it), "everyone warned me against dating you? My family, my friends…"
"For what reason?" Henry asks, irritated by the thought, he crosses his arms.
"Oh, you know," Anne says, washing her hands in the sink, back turned to him, "'you can't be with a man that's ten years older than you, you can't be with a man that has a daughter, you can't be with someone that's a divorcé-'"
"Thomas?"
"Mr. Boleyn to you," she snaps, drying her hands on the front of her apron, "but yes, what tipped you off? The French?"
Henry nods, and she rolls her eyes, unties the back of her apron and lifts it over her head, places it on the hook by the entryway of the kitchen.
"They said it won't work, you're just at two different places in your lives, but that's not even the problem, really," Anne says, with a self deprecating giggle, shaking her head as she walks back into the kitchen and grabs the bottle of wine.
"Then what is?"
"The problem, Henry," Anne says, opening the bottle, "is that you just don't take me seriously."
"That's not true-"
"No, I think it is," she says, grimacing, pouring herself a glass, all the way to the top of the rim, and leaning against the counter top, facing him, "I'm just some pretty young thing for you to show off to your friends at the club, to impress them-"
"Stop-"
"Some cute girl that speaks French with the wait-staff at the nice restaurants you take us to, to impress them-"
"Anne!" he yells, fists clenched, nails digging half-moons into his palms.
Anne raises a single eyebrow, then lifts the glass of chardonnay in the 'cheers' position with a smirk before downing half of it.
"You don't take me seriously," she continues, wiping the back of her hand with her mouth, "you can't, or you'd at least tell me when you were leaving, let alone why. You would've cared enough to do that."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Henry, face flushed, clashing with the coppery tone of his hair, gets up from the couch, walks past her in the kitchen, and grabs a wine glass.
"Did I say you could have some?" Anne demands.
"I," Henry says, pouring himself a glass, pointing to his chest with his free hand, "brought it, didn't I?"
Anne walks away from him, leans against the fridge door, arms crossed, stem of the glass tipping precariously within her fingertips.
"You're right," he says, quietly, eyes downcast, "I should've told you I would be gone."
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, 'that's-'"
"You won't even consider maybe telling me why?"
Henry fiddles with the button on the cuffs of his sleeve, and says, "No, I hadn't."
"Great. I share things with you, you know, but," Anne finishes her wine and it sloshes, some of it drips onto her white t-shirt, "it's whatever, I guess…shit."
"What?"
"I spilled the drink- move," she snaps impatiently, shoving him aside to get to the roll of paper towels and yanking some off, dabbing at her shirt. The yellow seeps atop the cotton on the shoulder, probably unfixable.
"Just take it off," he says, in a bored tone, "change. Don't bother with it."
Anne levels him with a glare she hopes rivals Medusa's and says, "Just take it off?"
"Yes, it's stained," Henry says, rolling his eyes.
"Okay," she says, shrugging, "I'll just…"
She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it, up and over her head, and hears the sound of glass shattering.
Anne's gaze flicks to the broken glass and the puddle of chardonnay on her kitchen floor, then up the six feet of Henry, settling on the stormy grey of his eyes, darkening by the second.
"You know where the broom is," Anne says, all sweetness, dropping her shirt on the floor before turning around and walking to her bedroom.
Amateur, she thinks as she slams the door behind her, as if she ever wears a bra when she's at home.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Henry watches her retreating figure, her bare, muscled back (more exposed since the haircut), imagines putting his thumbs on the dimples above her hips, kissing them as he's done before, even in his anger.
His anger fades, though, as he cleans up the mess on the floor, and he thinks that she may have…the slightest point. Maybe.
Henry grabs some plastic wrap from one of her drawers and covers the bowl of salad, puts it back in the fridge, not wanting it to dry out.
He's not very open, and she is. He hasn't shared much about himself, and she has.
Anne knows he's divorced, that he has a daughter who's six, Mary. She knows that Mary lives in Spain with her mother, Catherine, and that he gets this summer with her.
She's met his mother, Elizabeth, (not his father, who died when Henry was seventeen), knows of his siblings.
But still, he's edited. Left things out of his life that he'd rather not share. Omitted, rather.
It's been to stop her from running away, but it seems like it's pushing her away instead.
And she's pushing him, which, in Henry's romantic past, usually causes him to run.
But he doesn't want to run, actually. Not with her. He can't bear the thought of losing her, actually.
So it's probably time to tell her the truth.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Anne returns, twenty minutes later, hair wet from her shower, wearing a soft, blue jersey tee and velvet sweatpants, and slippers.
Henry waits at his seat on the couch, a glass of water in front of him, on a coaster. There's one to the left of him, too. He leans forward, hands folded, and says, "Hey."
Anne sits next to him, adjusts her knees on the cushion, sitting on her feet, and presses her nose against his face.
"I don't like fighting with you," she whispers, "but that wasn't okay."
"I know."
"You have to let me in, or this isn't going any-"
"I know," he says, taking a deep breath, and then her hand, in his, "I'm going to."
"Okay," Anne says, softly, and he kisses her hand before pulling away, making a seat at the other end of the couch.
Anne leans over the coffee table, picks the glass of water up by her side, and drinks, leans back against the couch and pulls her knees to her chest.
"Catherine and I…"
Henry begins, takes a shaky breath, then closes his eyes, bites the knuckles of his fist, and feels as if he's sinking.
"Catherine and you…?"
He hears Anne prompt, gently, feels her hand, small, squeeze his shoulder, but he shakes his head, says, "I'm sorry but please don't…touch me. Right now."
Feels her touch leave his shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut, even tighter, worries a hand over his mouth.
"Catherine and I had a son. He…he only lived for fifty two days. And he died. February 22, 2011. He would've been five years old, this year, had he…"
He opens his eyes, turns to her.
Her dark eyes shine with tears, spill and slip down her cheeks, silent, her hand pressed hard against her mouth.
"What was his name?" she asks, in a small voice, tilting her head to the side.
"Henry," he says, stunned by her reaction.
"Oh my God," she says, shoulders shaking, she looks down at her lap, wringing her hands, "I'm. I'm so…sorry," Anne says, voice cracking.
"You're…crying," he says, brow furrowing.
"Of course I'm crying, it's so sad," she says, sniffling, "I'm so…"
Anne trails off, puts a hand over her heart.
"I'm so unbelievably sad for you, and I'm so, sosorry, I can't…" Anne swipes the tears, still rolling down her cheeks away with her fingers, "doesn't everyone react like this? When you tell them?"
"No," he says, voice hoarse, "no, not at all. No one ever…cries. It just makes them uncomfortable, and that's why I don't tell people. That's why I disappear, I can't. I can't tell anyone, I can't talk about it. Because no one understands."
"Yeah," Anne says, with a shrug, "I have no idea, I've never lost, I can't even imagine-"
"You do, though," Henry says, in absolute wonder, he takes her hand and laces his fingers with hers, "somehow, you…feel my grief as if it were your own, I can tell. How do you do that?"
"I…"
Anne trails off, worrying her bottom lip in her teeth.
"I'm just sensitive, I guess," she says, shyly, with a shrug, "sorry."
And Henry remembers, now, exactly how sensitive she is. How he asked her if she wanted a tour, eight months ago, of the falcon exhibit. How he showed her one of the birds, perched on his gloved hand, and she asked how they made sure they didn't fly away out of the open enclosure.
Henry had told her that they had to clip their wings, so they could glide, but not soar, and she had gasped, her eyes filling with tears.
"Does it hurt them?" she had asked.
He had told her that he wasn't sure, that it was just a necessary precaution they had to take, what with the peregrine falcon being endangered. That they really had no way of knowing when or how much pain an animal was in, but that he knew they tried to do so as gently as possible.
"Oh," she had said, with a soft sigh, "I understand, but…it's sad. That they can't fly the way they're meant to."
He had stared at her, then (as he stares at her, now), and she had ducked her head, tucked her hair behind her ear, and apologized, said she knew it was a necessary evil, said he probably thought it was silly of her to say such a thing.
"No," Henry had said, then, "no, not at all."
"No," he says now, fiercely, he shakes his head, in awe of her, by the dainty way her eyelashes flutter, by her tear-stained, heart-shaped porcelain face, by the utter, utter depths of her compassion, "no, don't apologize for it. I love it. I love…"
Henry cradles her face in his hands and whispers, reverently, "I love you," at the exact moment he realizes it, and kisses the tears away from her face as she trembles, presses another kiss, gently, against her mouth, tasting salt and not minding one bit.
"I love you, too," Anne says, blinking damp butterfly kisses against his cheek, "thank you for sharing that with me, I know it was hard…I'm sorry I pushed you-"
"It's okay," he says, emitting a soft laugh, rubbing his nose against hers, "it's alright, I'm glad you did."
They remain, intertwined on the couch, simply holding each other, for the next hour or so. The wine, still open, stays on the counter, forgotten.
Henry thinks of the necklace she wears, his gift, the strange, vaguely prophetic statement inscribed on it, and smiles.
"Le temps viendra."
The time will come.