the syntax of things
disclaimer: oh, if only. aaron is so high above me. (that even half-rhymes.)
"since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you"
-e.e. cummings
Mandatory Minimums
he takes everything too seriously. nothing can be irreverent. she may admire that breadth of conviction but cannot reciprocate it.
she takes things too lightly. does not carry the weight of failures of the federal government in her step. he may yearn at moments for that gaiety and love of life(peoplepursuitofhappiness) but can't help resenting it.
he tells her that he would pick her up on a date with not enough drivers and too many drinks. the truth is he would pick up the earth itself to keep her from harm. he keeps it under a mask of friendly concern. emotional attachments have never been his forte.
he takes the pie for auld lang synes of marriage and trying too hard. but, maybeperhapspossibly, as she turns back and looks at him with something akin to love in her eyes, those days haven't all past quite yet.
Debate Camp
it's hard to stand so near her, with sam's silly impressions of the president and morbid latin campfire songs and "team toby". though he has more affection for his deputy than he would care to admit, it is awkward and discomforting to be continually reminded by sam's sly smile that she still won't have him. she's always excelled at sheer stubbornness.
while they have their little meeting (wherein they hatch this elaborate scheme involving some pedestrian wooing techniques – poemwriting dinner chocolate champagne cards - toby knows andi would never fall for) he thinks of That Night (it already has capitals) when a dangerous combination of too much wine and her proximity resulted in… well, resulted. the memories of lawyer letterheads and getting off on the fertility clinic floor stung harder than bees with the bitter, after-grape taste of wine in his mouth and suddenly rational thought hadn't seemed as nearly important to his well-being as kissing her at that second had. isn't.
(tenses get jumbled up in toby's head and maybe finally he is tired of complexity and wants one thing in his life to be simple - this thing.)
Twenty-Five
it was a phantom child who drove them apart and two very real and corporal children who threw them back together again.
he is amazed. leo was right. the little hats are the least of it – the pain and power and potential of this moment. five, six, years between the wish and the fulfillment. he had always been afraid children would somehow turn him into his father.
but he untangles himself with a fine tooth comb made out of whatever it is you use to examine your soul and understands that it is not about him. it is about them.
(that's the key ingredient his father forgot to put in the zieglar recipe for family.)
Gaza
he sees her on the CNN screen and pays tribute to the word almost. almost blown up. almost still his wife.
but he is more than almost upset. josh stands next to him in the same kind of pain (why the stupid harvard boy won't admit donna is everything to him and save himself the torture is beyond toby). the unacknowledged, intense concern he still holds for her (one that winds beyond the parameters of the concern one should feel for one's former spouse and the mother of one's children) is stripped away from its hidden crevices and made plain to see.
this gush of public emotion is embarrassing. but he only allows himself to dwell on this momentarily before thoughts of her are able to scale over his trenches of reserve. she deserves nothing less.
he holds molly and huck with a grip born of desperation, thanking whatever deity might hear that they won't be the only pieces of her he has left.
Tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow)
she smiles as she reaches the door of the apartment. she will come back later with molly and huck but this moment is just for him (them). the experience of jail looming over him and suddenly being cut free of his conscience-ridden mistalk to greg brock seems a little impossible.
"hey, tobas," she declares quietly, leaning against door frame, "rumor around here says you might have some free time nowadays. i was hoping i could enlist your babysitting services."
"right this minute? because, andrea, i think I might need a few minutes to recover from you going behind my back and lobbying cj, the president, and the whole damn country."
"what you need, mister, is a little gratitude. i worked to make sure our – your! – children wouldn't have to see you in an orange jumpsuit through bars."
"no, you worked so hard so that you wouldn't have to explain to them why i was in an orange jumpsuit or through bars."
"whether you choose to believe this or not, i may actually do things for you out of something more than self-interest."
"how touching. it's good to know that residue love and mutual progeny will get you somewhere these days."
"will you just shut up? you're angry and bitter and sad" (oh, the memories and connotations hidden in those three letters!) "when you have no legitimate reason and this is exactly why i wouldn't marry you again – not then and not now."
"you always needed more than the love i could give you. don't try and mask that! time to stop being childish when you have children of your own."
"ok, that's enough. i'm going now and you better start shaping up if you want me to consider letting you near my children again."
knowing she means it, something inside him snaps – a last, icy barrier crumbles away as she comes to the door that would take her out of his apartment.
"they're mine too!" he comes close to something not unlike begging. "please, andi. i need them. i can't get out of this without them. or you." he adds, the low tone of his voice charged with more than mere decibel vibration.
she stops.
"alright." it's small, and not entirely solid, but it's something. and then the something turns up the corners of her lips into a smile.
the thick sunshine of the room hangs between them. he stares down at his scuffed black loafers, catalogs the grain patterns of the wood floor.
"so, what do we do now?" she's the only one allowed to see this boyish insecurity of his.
"i think this is the part where you kiss this girl, genius."
he does.
she's still hovering in his arms and he whispers "so what is this you were saying about babysitting? jobs are hard to come by. when would you be expecting my services?"
"tomorrow." she smiles up at him.
"tomorrow," he repeats. he likes the sound of this new, bright future on the tip of his tongue.
an. words look prettier and more poetic lowercase. everyone is entitled to a phase. blame my hippy school.
with fondest love,
marzoog