A Matter of Perception

Drabbles and One-Shots

Associated with the "A Matter of" Series

By: cultureandseptember

A Matter of Time One-Shot

The book sat in my lap, but I couldn't see it. I was staring at the pages without seeing words. Just blurred lines and paper painted orange by the setting sun. My legs were folded underneath me, blue skirt tucked up under my knees. My shoes lay forgotten at the end of the sofa, patent-leather scuffed and worn from months of city walking. It'd been a particularly difficult week. The kids in my class were getting restless. Goodness, everyone was restless. The war was growing worse and worse. More and more countries were falling the Germany, and with each new fallen nation, a new nightmare introduced me to the horrors they would experience. I couldn't sleep well, especially after Churchill's desperate pleas. "Give us the tools," he said, "and we will finish the job." Only I was withholding the tools and the solution would never be that simple.

Alfred was in Washington with several States in attendance to support the Lend-Lease legislation, his bid to support the Allies. New York had gone to lend his aid. It was the least he could do. With his absence, the Brooklyn townhome was silent and cavernous. In that stillness, it was easy to get lost. It was easy to think about everything—the war, the blood, my family. It was easy to lose myself to it.

The sudden trill of a clarinet made my heart nearly jump from my chest as I whirled around toward the radio. Johnny lifted his hand from the dial and let out an amused laugh at my surprise, a bright smile lit up his face. "Where were you at, doll face? I've been talking for a couple minutes now…"

Pressing my cool fingers to my forehead, I let out a sigh and relaxed into the sofa cushions. My other hand passed my chest, heart still thundering within at his sudden appearance. "I was—" thinking about death and destruction and loneliness? "—thinking about lesson plans." It was perhaps one of the lamest excuses I had ever made, but I didn't bother to recant it.

John shifted, a smile still on his face. His eyes though, they became critical and seemed to examine the downturn of my lips and the tiredness of my eyes. "Lend-Lease passed," he said after a minute. I shifted slightly, expecting as much. Lend-Lease was a key part of the war and there was no influence to stop it from passing. Of course it went through. Nevertheless, I gave him a slight smile and nodded my head. "Hopefully, it can help them out. Arthur came to plead his case. That was probably one of his strongest rhetorical moves in years, if I'm honest." His shoulders shrugged and he sighed, pulling himself out of his coat. "You're lookin' pale again. Have you been eating?"

"Yes, I have." I looked back to the book and sighed. I started trying to read hours ago and only made it a few scant pages. Trying to hide my frustration, I fiddled with the edge of a page. I could sense him behind me, and I was certain he was watching me. I didn't know what to do. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, everything was alright. My eyes slipped closed and I let out a breath.

The music suddenly got louder (trumpets catcalling and the whirring trombones lilting out a tune). I nearly jumped out of my skin. Hours of solemn quiet halted the moment New York walked in the door. This was why it felt so—

Johnny was standing in front of me—a wide smile breaking on his face. I could practically see the lights of the city in his eyes with the way they were twinkling. "Dance with me, Michelle." I leaned back to look up at him, surprised by how tall he seemed. His jacket was long gone and his tie was loosened. His hat was still in place though and it gave him an almost rugged appearance. For a moment, I considered what he had just said and then my head shook. Dancing? I hadn't danced since—Before I could say a word of protest, he had grabbed my right hand and lugged me up. My legs tingled with the new position. "Loosen up. This is Glenn! You love Glenn!" His feet moved in practiced time to the beat, fancy footowork that only those versed in the style could accomplish. After a moment, he grabbed his hat and flicked it onto a nearby table. "C'mon, you gotta move for it to be a dance, doll face."

"I can't—"

"Can't or won't…still won't get you out of it!" He continued to move, feet swiveling. He pulled at my arms, forcing me to make a step to avoid crashing to the floor. The song moved out of the first few bars, and the swirling notes of that all-too-familiar song jumped around the living room, bouncing off the walls as he pulled me to his chest with a bright and ringing laugh, and expertly twirled me around. Despite myself, I let out a laugh. New York seemed energized by it all, his chest seeming to vibrate under my hands. "That's it, Shelly! Dance with me!" Smiling ruefully, I knew there was no going against him once he had his mind set on something.

My feet began to move and I started to sway. Johnny caught the actions with an eagle eye and gave a gleeful whoop, catching both of my hands in his. He pulled me to him again, keeping our bodies together as he tilted us down toward our conjoined hands every few beats. We twisted, turned, spun. I felt my chest become lighter and my smile become freer. I let out a laugh, pressing my forehead into his shoulder for a single moment before he swung me out and I twisted with the beat of the wailing trombones. I laughed harder than I had in months. The trumpets whirred. My hand remained in his and we collided again moments later, twirling this way and that. Everything felt warm and I felt alive.

It was in that moment with his laughter and the music that I forgot, just for a few minutes, everything else. There was nothing— no alternate worlds, no loneliness, no time, no Nations, no States, no impeding doom. No war. Nothing.

There was just Johnny, me, and Glenn Miller.

John laughed. I laughed. And, for that short time, we were okay.