A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? Most of you that frequent this site probably don't even remember me, and that's perfectly fine. This is my attempt at emulating American Gothic style from the early 20th century; it's an aesthetic that I really enjoy. Also, this is a microfiction piece (it's intentionally small).

Youthless

The past year had been something of an anomaly, reaching its zenith in the last few months. I never thought I would miss the anonymity that monotony afforded, but it was something that I craved now, missing it for so long. I dragged myself down the cold street; the sun had set at five, as it had been for the last month. It was December, three days before Christmas but the city didn't pulse with the usual life that Christmas brought with it. I approached the metro entrance; its steps bathed in the warm glow of the orange streets lamps and the reflecting blue-tinted light of the snow. The scuffling sounds of others echoed and outlined the tunnel as I began to move through it, just like in days past, the last vestige of my normal life.

That is, not to say that my life is anything abnormal. My experiences, as of late, are events that many have gone through, shadows of the mutual experience we all share. The abnormality I'm experiencing comes from the difference in these sets of experiences. It's cliché to say, but everything changes when you're having a baby.

I felt a slight graze coming from my pocket. I struggled to pull it out, the eternal knotting of objects unnoticed, until the very moment they're needed; they seem to have always been that way. But, I reject that, we all reject that, and we say that it started in a different condition, and it has no reason to change. Then, upon observance, by the act of Loki, or something completely supernatural, it has changed. Eleanor was calling; her usual ringtone muffled and ricocheting off the close walls of the subway.

She said something incredibly softly, seemingly held back, "What was that?" I said, "I'm in the metro and I can't really hear you." It was always a pleasure to hear from her after my work day. She usually calls about having me pick something up or to simply say hello. These little slices of amorous affection kept me sane after working.

"Hey Theo," She said a little louder. She was still muffled, contained, "How soon are you going to be home?"

"Soon enough, I just got on at Chatalet so it will be only a little while until I get to La Marais," I responded. I heard a slight sniffle; I couldn't determine its origin, "Are you alright, Ellie?"

She paused, and people had started to look at me. Their gaze promptly tore at me, and I knew as the conversation went on, the stares would only get more prevalent. They were unashamed of noticing otherness on the metro, and, whenever I spoke English, their eyes snapped in my direction. I would return the gaze, and they, for the most part, would turn away as soon as they were recognized. Shame burned away at them as quickly as their judgment burned away at me, "Yeah, yes, I just wanted to know how soon you'd be home."

I grinned, "Do you have something planned for me? You know you can't keep a surprise from me," I turned off my smile quickly, and retreated back from the others on the metro, "you're not a very good liar."

"I," she stopped again, "No, like I said, just wanted to know where you were."

"Alright, I'm at Saint Paul, so I'll be home in about ten," I started to move through the people. "Attention à la marche en descendant du train, mind the gap when you get off the train." I stumbled forward off the train and fell to the ground. My phone slid from my hand and hit the wall. I've heard that message every day, multiple times a day, but I've never taken notice of it; like my phone, it was normal until noticed. I crawled across the brown tinged floor and grabbed my phone. My hand and knees were covered in dust; they were looking to my more critically than before.

I ascended the steps to La Marais, tinged in the orange glow I knew from the other stops. The district was beating with life. The snow trenched streets gave way to dusted sidewalks, covered with people moving slowly, without hurry. There was a general malaise, but it wasn't negative; the air was charged with amorousness, the amorousness that comes with winter. There was a light snow falling, sprinkling the deluge of powder already set. I glided through the crowds, moving faster than others, but in no real hurry.

I got to our building, steps covered in ice, splashing light around the deluminated interior. I began the arduous walk I dreaded and anticipated each day. We were on the fourth floor, which meant five flights of stairs, something we didn't realize when we moved in. The Parisian denotation of floors skips the ground floor. Each day I knew that these steps would be mocking me as I struggled to move up them after the long day, but I knew that each step was a reward, each step brought me closer to home. The beige walls were accented by the oaken steps. They were ancient, remodeled but not replaced since the building was made in the early 19th century. The stairwell was the only part of the common building space that was lit up. A light yellow glow filled the space, casting shadows and hiding my feet as I moved up them. The fourth floor always seemed a world away, but it always snuck up on me, unnoticed. I got to out apartment and turned off the light.

"Eleanor?" I opened the door and took my first step through the threshold. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the lights outside. They reflected off the windows and snow, filling the rooms with a blue glow, unnatural to the usually warm space. I turned on a light. It banished the folding shadows and defined the space, "Where are you?"

"I'm in our bedroom," she said softly. I took of my shoes and starting making my way cautiously to the back.

"Why are all the lights off?" I said as I opened the slightly ajar door that led to our bedroom. The room was lit by a few candles, "Oh, now what is this?" she was facing away from me; she hadn't turned around. I got closer to her, she was wearing her green nightware, "Candles, how romantic!" She turned around to face me, but kept her eyes averted. Her face was red, her eyes tinged bloodshot, "Ellie?"

She started crying softly and I stood, frozen. Her tears picked up and I moved to her on the bed, "What's going on? Why are you crying?"

"I, I don't know how to say it." She turned around and drowned herself in my pillow. Her crying was softer, drowned out by the sounds of the revelers and cars outside. I touched her shoulder and leaned into her.

"Ellie, you have to tell me what's going on."

She sat back up and threw herself into my chest hard enough to knock me backwards. Her tears started to stain my coat; I could feel them seeping into my shirt. I've never witnessed someone cry like this. I held her in silence, and she started to calm down. She was having trouble catching her breath, "I fell today. I fell really hard." She looked up at me with sullen eyes. She grabbed her torso, "I fell so hard, I fell so hard that I lost her." Her last words drifted off and she began to cry again, back into my chest.

I grabbed her tightly for fear of losing her. Her cries drifted off against the air, clashing with the people outside, fighting against their sounds, their affection.