Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Psych. No copyright infringement is intended.
Lassie gets the treatment this time. Inspired by the Ben Folds Five song "Selfless, Cold, and Composed."
It happens in some inconsequential sandwich shop on a random Thursday during his lunch break. Three people up the line from him, he spots her: the slim shoulders, the dark hair, now tinted with gray, pulled neatly into some intricate twist, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. If he shifts just right, he can catch the slight scent of her perfume. It's been over two years since he's seen her last and he realizes just like that, he's back in that softly lit restaurant, watching her walk out the door. It was stupid to think he wouldn't run into her again- the city is only so big and they had similar haunts. It was only a matter of time until they ran into each other, he tells himself, but he hadn't anticipated the strange dull ache that now sits where his stomach used to be at the mere sight of her. After the papers were signed, he had heard (hoped) that she had moved away. But there she is, typing away on a Blackberry, oblivious to the fact that he is standing just a few feet away.
He thinks about leaving, but his partner is sitting in the car, patiently waiting for him to bring her some lunch. Wildly, he promises to never ever offer to get lunch again, doesn't care how down she looks or how bad the most recent case went. Or maybe he should just stop eating lunch altogether because, really, who needed to eat? There was plenty of coffee back at the station and that's all he really needed in order to keep going.
The line moves slowly forward and he is willing her to turn around (don't turn around, don't turn around), all the while his mind spins, churning up images from his failed marriage. He prides himself on his ability to solve things, to put things back together, but he can't for the life of him solve that particular horribly broken puzzle. The things that worked- gentle touches, soft kisses, the steady creak of a bed- refuse to fit with the things that didn't- raised voices, broken dishes, an uncomfortable couch. He may have, eventually, let her walk out that door, may have suffered in silence with a few more-than-usual visits to the gun range, but it doesn't mean he has forgotten. Two years seems like nothing now.
And then she is brushing past him, food in hand. He startles, caught completely unaware that time has moved forward while he is mired in the past, spinning his wheels. He swallows hard and tugs on his tie, trying to think of something, anything, to say. What comes out is a half-strangled cough and a "sorry" for standing in her path to the door. She pauses her scrolling and texting, sparing him a brief glance. A vague smile shows that she noticed someone is standing there, but it doesn't seem to register that it's him. He's seen smiles like that before, on bank tellers and cashiers, just before telling him to have a nice day. They have become strangers and he has no idea what to do with that because they have a past- passionate and wonderful and shattered and dead- and shouldn't that mean at least something? Or perhaps it doesn't, if the way she so easily pushes past him is anything to go by. What do they really share anymore? She's gone before he can figure the answer out.
Back in the car, lunch bags tossed to his partner, he is trying to push that encounter out of his mind, filing it away under things to just not think about. He finds that he is rather good at this sort of compartmentalization ("You are so goddamn cold! Don't you feel anything?") and he just about has the file cabinet door shut and locked when O'Hara speaks.
"Carlton?"
He knows that she almost certainly saw his ex-wife walk out of the shop and has figured out the reason for his scowl. The car easily backs out of the space and is moving down the street before he answers. "What is it, O'Hara?"
"Next time, I'll get lunch."