For Meghan, for her birthday. Inspired by Audrey Niffenegger. With endless thanks to Ari for the beta.
They are lying in bed, after sex, doing exactly what should be romantic, but isn't.
He'd thrust into her the final time, then came with nothing more than a groan. He'd tried to say her name – tried to remember that hearing Rory in his voice as he called out in bliss would have made her happy – but he just didn't. He couldn't. Then he'd caught his breath, rolled off of her, stripped himself of the layer that still separated them, and turned to her, pulling a sheet around them.
He is trying to hold her now, balance their weights together and let her lean into him, but it is awkward and forced. She tries, too, her sticky freckled skin pressing into his, but it's not like before. This is a different type of touch, and they can't seem to get it right.
Her lips separate, making a click sound as they do, but she is only able to sigh. Here she is, a writer, a reader, and no words come to mind. That was good is too generic, too reserved for partakers of a one night stand; Good night too tender and fitting; I love you too earth shatteringly honest.
They have both read enough to idealize sex, and they know that they should be basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking now: observing the way the moon shines on their lover's skin, inhaling the scents they have produced, whispering sleepily as the energy of their orgasms die down. But instead she is concentrating on how cold his apartment is, how her neck is beginning to hurt as she tries to rest it on his shoulder, and he is thinking that he needs to use the bathroom, but doesn't quite know how to considerately extricate himself from her. Extrication without pain is certainly not his forte, he muses, the scents of California washing over him for a moment.
They love each other, need to be in love, but everything they want comes out too quickly, and then it is all chilled by the air between them and falls apart. They've thought of what it would be like – to see the name Jess scrawled on a piece of paper with domestic words like Went to store, be back in an hour, or Left dinner in the 'fridge, see you tonight written below it; or to watch him as he mutters curses after he cuts himself shaving – and they could have it. But the more they try to push towards this, the farther they find themselves away.
They repel nature by nature, with their deliberate gestures and pre-formulated words; submission to their own impulses would be so simple, so right, but they cannot reach it. They won't.
Tomorrow will be the same. Another stolen moment in his bed, eyes shutting out looks of adoration, a 3 a.m. phone call to a cab company, and silent promises to say what they really want the next day. (They will never say what they really want.)
A lock of hair falls to her face, and her hand reaches up to clear it before his gets there.