Ephemera (One Fine Wire)
Here is a fic I wrote a long, long time ago - I just forgot to post it. A friend reminded me so here it is! I've taken a new direction with this one (at least, I'd like to think so!) The OC is no one in particular; but she is not Minerva. Not. Minerva. Got it? Just imagine her as a normal poor lady whose world is collapsing around her.
That kid of sounds weird. Still.
Read and please review - the staple food of authors everywhere!
Click, click.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Click, click.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Click, click.
You swallow hard, and you wince at each sound, his well-manicured pianist's fingers caressing his beloved toy, with all the love and passion that he should be showering on you. You sit at your dresser, watching his reflection in the mirror, his back turned to you, typing out God-knows-what even at this ungodly hour, with resentment, disappointment, and – is that it? – a longing for what could've been. You watch his eyes burning a hole into the laptop screen as your hair cascades onto your shoulders.
You wince, not because the sound is annoying or irritating (God knows you've gotten used to it!), but because it is the sound of everything falling apart. You feel a burning hatred for him at times, a fire gone unextinguished for far too long, emerging steadily from the still-glowing embers each time you think it's been subdued. The rock on your finger means nothing to either of you now – just a cheery glint now and then trying to tell you to keep your hopes up.
And you call to him; his face almost bleached white from long hours in front of the computer, telling him, commanding him, pleading him to come to bed. He either ignores you, or doesn't hear you, which is highly plausible, since he claims to always be up to his knees in work, too busy to even sit with you in your expansive garden for just five minutes. You give up after minutes, and turn off the lights in defiance as you pull the luxurious covers over yourself. He sighs loudly, letting you know that you've won…this time. The bright screen turns black, and he settles in next to you, his hands cold and clammy. All is quiet as he slips into a world of his own, a world of all darkness and no light, of quick schemes and gold bullion, but most importantly, a world where you don't exist.
And so, you too, with thoughts most ungrateful on your mind, fall headfirst into the inky darkness of comfort and solace.
You wave with the most fake smile possible plastered on your face to him as his Bentley merges into the horizon, speeding off towards Dublin Airport. Paris is his destination, and whatever he might say about it, you know the truth. You've always known the truth. Since the very beginning. Which is why you wonder now – why did you let it all happen?
You'd told him it wouldn't work out. You couldn't speak ten languages; you counted with your fingers while adding up numbers; you took an hour to recall the first element in the periodic table; you weren't good-looking at all. But he'd insisted. It didn't matter, he said.
But it did. Now it hurt.
And that was the main defect – you weren't blonde, with blue eyes and a superior intellect. You weren't slim or curvy. You didn't float when you walked, or looked stunning in each and every outfit. You always had your foot in your mouth; you ate like a pig. You made stupid jokes and cackled even though they weren't funny; you knew nothing of the business world, or the stock market. You constantly overslept, and burnt whatever you were cooking in the kitchen, even if it was just a sandwich or toast. And you never watched your language; you said what was on your mind, no filtering.
Let's face it. The spark's died out, you can see herself telling him. It was a mistake from the very beginning. And what you've been doing hasn't helped either.
That is, if you gather up the courage to tell him. Am I scared of him now…?
The coffee in your mug tastes bitter as you realize there's no sugar in it. How bloody symbolic. You walk back into the house, which smells faintly of furniture polish. He had, of course, always wanted the best. You stand in the foyer, for the first time, disgusted with his nouveau-riche attitude; but more so because you had allowed yourself to be wowed and bowled over with it. The floor feels cold to your bare feet; like his recent demeanor.
The distance has grown considerably, and not just because he'd be somewhere over the English Channel in his private jet right now. You sit at the long dining table in the ballroom, and you can swear that you can hear faint laughter and the tinkling of wine glasses. The parties you host here have slowly and gradually stopped. You think of the 'business' he's going to be conducting in Paris – him and that…thing, in a room overlooking the Seine, their teeth stained a faint red with the finest Beaujolais, their inebriated selves falling back into the pillows as his hand snakes around her body. The thought disgusts you deeply; you shudder as you recall how you'd jokingly called him Tony Stark the first night you'd met. How right you'd been.
You couldn't bear the thought of telling him that she knew about it; his father was weak and ailing, his mother longing for grandchildren. Yet seeing how happy they'd been not too long ago made you want to hold on a little longer. Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, the tide would change.
And so, deep in your thoughts, the phone rings.
"Hello?" You try to sound casual, because you know it's him.
"Hey…" A faint masculine voice replies. You hear a giggle in the background.
"I'm…happy to know you've reached safely…" You croak, your voice breaking. What do I say?
"Listen, there have been some…complications." That giggle again. "I'm going to have to be here for about two more days." His voice seems steely, as though he's trying to hold everything together when the seams are splitting apart.
"That long, huh?" You try to sound detached. Apparently he has a better time with her than I thought.
"Look…" He sounds sincere now. "I'm sorry, okay? I promise, I'll make it up to you."
"No worries." No worries, my ass. "It's all cool here on the western front. I'll see you on Monday, then."
"Yes, I guess so." A long silence ensues.
"I'll hang up now," you hear yourself say. "This call must be costing you." You chuckle at your feeble joke.
"Goodbye." How right he is, you think as you make your mind up.
"Goodbye." The line goes dead, but not before the giggle on the other end finally snaps you out of the lie you've been living for so long.
And so, you pack your things, and leave your wedding ring behind. An apology note seems highly unnecessary. You see the faces of your in-laws with their broken hearts, his brothers, their faces grey, and finally, him, with his face bent in shame. Oh, for a camera.
Because now you realize that you've hated him for quite a long time. You gave up a lot for him; he never sacrificed anything. The line was taut for too long, too frayed at both ends – you were walking on a fine wire for far too long. Every tightrope walker falls down, but your injuries have wounded you not just physically, but mentally.
So goodbye doesn't seem too hard for you now.
Short, I know - but please, please review!!