#8 Our world
Eventually they sorted it out.
It should have been fireworks and storms; fights and arguments drawn out over days. Personal grievances they couldn't really overcome, until it all melted; something gave and they fell together like pieces in a jigsaw.
But it wasn't. It was a begrudging truce followed by pretending it never happened, shamed into silence.
She's disappointed, though she tries to ignore it. She expected passion and fire, didn't just expect it - she wanted it. She wanted the chances it afforded, wanted to explore the doors it opened. And she can't stand the thought this is all she gets.
He arrives late one Tuesday night, a bottle of wine in his hand and regret in his eyes, and she can't turn him away. He knows it; she knows it, and their dance of avoidance on the doorstep is nothing more than perfunctory.
"Boyd, I…"
She's not sure what she's going to say, or even what she can say. She takes the bottle from him and leaves him by the door, heading for the kitchen as she fights to find some part of her brain that can process the sight of Boyd at her door.
She comes back to find him perched on the edge couch, and she bites back a comment on his inability to relax anywhere but his office. She doesn't know this for sure - she's never SEEN him comfortable anywhere else, but she's never seen him at home - and with their boundaries breached like this, it's too personal.
He waits and watches as she places the glasses on the table and - sitting on the armchair opposite him - pulls the wine towards her. "Here, let…" He begins, reaching to take the bottle but the cork is popped before he finishes his sentence. She fills the glasses almost to overflowing, and quickly gulps one, two mouthfuls down and studies him over the rim. He raises his glass but doesn't drink, keeps his eyes fixed ahead, and bounces his foot against the floor.
"That's rude." She says without really thinking, and he throws her a confused look. "That." She gestures to his leg which he immediately stills. "It's a sign of discomfort in your surroundings."
He looks mildly amused. "Where did you learn that?"
"It's simple body language, everyone knows it."
He smirks disbelievingly and raises an eyebrow so she concedes. "Okay, I read it an old Cosmopolitan magazine in a Doctors' waiting room once."
His leg begins bouncing again.
"Frankie …"
She stares at his leg; watching the curve of his knee as it rises and falls, ignoring his eyes burning her skin. He doesn't speak either, and her name hangs in the silence as a question neither wants to answer. They sit for minutes in this mute tableau and in the quiet her temper flares: at his weakness for coming and their shared weakness for not talking.
"Can you go please?" Her voice is stung with anger and she finally meets his eyes. Hurt flickers across his face for a moment but he rises to his feet without voicing it.
His immediate submission only fans her annoyance. "Is that it? You come to my house, uninvited, for the first time since we've known each other. You bring wine and stand on my doorstep looking sheepish and nervous. All that and you're going to just leave, after half a glass of Merlot and some stupid small talk about body language?"
"I don't want to upset you."
"So why did you do it?"
"I came here because I thought we needed to talk."
"That's not what I meant. You know that's not what I meant." Her voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper and she looks at him under lowered lashes, vulnerability painted across her face. He reaches an arm out to soothe her and speaks in a voice that is equally subdued "I…don't know. I just thought…well I didn't think. God, I'm too old for this…"
And in a split second her vulnerability dissolves and she controls herself, straightening up to meet his gaze. "Yeah you're right. We're acting like kids, and I hate it. I hate you for making me act this way and I hate myself for doing it. And it stops now Boyd. Right here, right now. This isn't us; this isn't the way we are. Our world is at work, you don't belong here, and I'm not playing by your rules anymore. I can't."
He hesitates, and she can see a thought teetering on his lips, but confusion dances in his eyes and he says nothing. He just nods and brushes his lips across her cheek, heads for the door and out, without even stopping to put his coat on.
He thinks he hears her call his name before the front door closes, a scream, a sob, a curse.
He doesn't turn back.
