observations
he studied her. he always had. from his desk, from the driver's seat, across the restaurant table top. after four years of studying and memorizing her, he knew every line in her face and every curve on her body. now, her body was foreign. invaded and overtaken by brute force, and he studied her anew.
she was thin, thinner than he'd ever known her to be, so thin he was afraid she would blow away with the breeze if it hit her just right. even on her petite five-foot-nothing frame, her thinness was unnatural. she was porcelain, and it hurt him to look at her, but he didn't dare look away for fear that she might disappear, that his gaze was the only thing still anchoring her to this life.
her eyes were still piercing blue, though, and every so often, they would catch his own, and her eyes would tell him that she was still here, still with him. she was not leaving today. not yet. his eyes would say back, please don't ever leave, not today, not ever.
her hair was still fire atop her head (although he had never seen it in all its glory, he knew it was more vibrant than the brownish-yellow that his red-green color blindness allowed him to see) and it was still perfect and flat and curved to her beautifully thin face. he knows the scent of the shampoo she uses, and he thinks he could pick it out in a crowd with his eyes shut tight. he closes his eyes and inhales deeply (he must practice, he thinks), and is blessed with the familiar and comforting scent. he can still smell her life. she is still here. she is not leaving today. not yet.
for all his studying, he has become acutely aware of the difference between red lipstick and blood. he remembers his own blood draining from his face and the pounding of his heart in his head when she had left the office without telling him and he had found red staining a napkin half buried in the trash next to her desk. the ringing of her phone as it echoed back to him under the papers of her desk. she is gone, he thinks, gone, and it is happening today and i am not ready. not today, not now. and he wonders what the universe has against him and why it felt the need to drag her down with him and he just starts to feel helpless and lost when she comes walking in the doorway with a cup of coffee in her hands and fresh lipstick on those lips that he almost kissed with reckless abandon.
on his couch, he studies her. she watches the movie and pretends she can't feel his worried stare (he knows she can). he vaguely registers jim lovell saying, houston, we have a problem, and he thinks, yes, we do. the problem is not aliens or space ships or botched moon landings. in a turn of fate he never thought to imagine, the problem is men. men, mankind, and their failures and their limitations and their insignificance. mankind has failed him, has definitely failed her, has reduced her to almost nothing. she is thin, weak, and like nothing he has ever witnessed before. there is nothing to save her. he has nothing, knows nothing, and now believes in nothing but that he cannot live without her.
his body moves before his brain can stop him, and he touches her, brushes her emaciated cheek, tucks an errant lock of brownish-yellow (which is really the color of burning fire) hair behind her ear, out of those piercing blue eyes. and she bruises too easily now, and he barely registered the softness of her skin on his fingertips, and he fears that tomorrow he will see a blue-black constellation tracing the line he just followed from her cheek to her ear, covered with makeup. he can feel the warmth of rushing blood under her cold skin (she is always cold now, she has the blanket they were sharing an hour ago pulled up to her chin and his thick running socks swallow her tiny feet) and he knows that she is not leaving. not today. not yet.
she looks at him and he sees strength behind her tired eyes. they tell his eyes not to worry, that she may look weak, but her soul is fighting. his eyes reply, i know, i know, i know, but i can't protect you from this.
"i'm fine," she whispers and her eyes tell him a million things that she does not and cannot say. "okay," he says and they both turn back to the movie, her feet having found purchase under his thigh for extra warmth.
she is a porcelain doll, he thinks, and she has fire in her hair and in her soul.