Traditions
by Kaelanti
"This is not how I envisioned my life turning out," Helga informed her reflection in the mirror. Her reflection's lips quirked in a sardonic smile, and Helga pulled the brush through her blonde hair again. "By now, I was supposed to be the youngest President ever with my first man standing happily beside me, not some dowdy Elizabethan Poetry professor who doesn't even celebrate Valentine's Day!"
She moved to the closet, digging through it before coming up with a fuzzy pink sweater that hugged all the right curves and seemed to invite touch. She tossed it on the bed along with a flowing white skirt that suited it, then turned back to the mirror, reaching up to where a long, pink ribbon lay draped over one side. It wasn't the ribbon she'd worn in her youth. That was carefully folded away in a jewelry box that was stored away. But she never had quite gotten out of the habit of wearing something.
On went the sweater and skirt, and then Helga twisted her hair up into a blonde bun. Feathered bangs softened the severe look, as did the skillful tying of the bow around the bun. She ignored the way she could see the beginning of paler silver streaking through the gold. Instead, she went to apply that last bit of mascara, and tease her brow into behaving, so that at least it wasn't all over everywhere.
A few final touches, and she made her way downstairs, her hand lingering on the railing as she reached the bottom step and looked into the living room. "Done?" he asked, grinning at her with that half-lidded expression that even now transformed the pit of her stomach into a mass of quivering jello. She nodded, and he got up from where he sat on the couch, grabbing the jacket that he'd draped over the arm and putting it on as he made his way to her.
"For the record," he said, holding out a hand for her to take as she descended that final step. If he was aware of the gentlemanly act, she'd never really been able to tell it. "I don't think anyone wearing that outfit has the right to call themselves dowdy. Unless there's some ancient translation to the word that I don't know about?"
"Look, Arnoldo," she countered, rolling her eyes a bit at him even as she moved to straighten his red tie. "You're not supposed to be listening in on a girl getting ready for a date. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?" Her chiding was cut short as he laughed and tugged her close, leaning in for a kiss that she ducked away from. "The only thing ruining this application of lipstick, Bucko, is the food." Twisting free of his arm, she moved to slip on her shoes before turning to him. "Speaking of which, where are we eating?"
He just laughed, arms folded over his chest as he watched her. "Phoebe recommended a Japanese place downtown," he said after a moment, moving to get her purse from the kitchen table before she could ask for it. "I thought we'd try it out."
Her hand brushed his as she took the purse from him, and for a moment, there was the clink of metal on metal, so familiar after all these years that she didn't even register it. Not when the warmth of his skin, equally familiar, sent a faint shiver through her all the same. "Sounds good to me. Not likely to be very crowded on a Thursday, is it?"
"No, it isn't," he agreed, moving to open the door for her. "It doesn't hurt that it's a week after Valentine's Day, either. Everyone's spent their money on that day," he laughed. As she passed by him, he reached out, catching her wrist and tugging her around to face him. "Oh, and Helga?"
She blinked, tilting her head a bit as her eyes narrowed at him. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Fix your lipstick in the car," he directed, a bare breath before he leaned down to capture her lips in his. She smiled into the kiss, her arms going around him as they stood in their own doorway. Some traditions were too wonderful to break...