Hangover
XxX
Morning: the City wears a white muzzle.
Twelve inches have accumulated in the span of 24 hours. The forecast calls for another twelve in 24.
Bella wakes up before him and grabs her clothes, strewn about his loft. The TV is on; muted, but on. She tries to recall: didn't she turn it off?
The coffee table sits askew - a mess of glasses, bottle caps, and wrapped glow-in-the-dark condoms tell on her and remind her: they never got around to making those water balloons. Underneath the couch, the black mouth of a wine bottle yawns into the room.
She groans, having forgotten about it.
Outside, the landscape is devoid of City textures, where the silence is in collective breath-holding, waiting out the storm. A Grand Oak slouches in white burden and against his sliding glass doors, the snow is knee deep.
She realizes that she is thinking in whispers.
She tiptoes past his sleeping form to the bathroom where the furnishings are utilitarian – a shell-shaped standing sink, a shower stall, and a toilet.
Her bra hangs on the hook behind the door. She will wear it today and the rest of her own clothes, she decides, while downing two aspirin found in his medicine cabinet.
She splashes water, cold, on her face. It drips off her eyelashes, the closest thing she has to tears. Her heart is sobbing and she can't make it stop.
Struggling to recall yesterday, her memories are full of guilt and self-hate. She remembers his arms around her last night and the desperate, lonely fucking, every bit of it leaving a residual bitter taste in her mouth.
In the beginning, she preferred to be emotionally detached, but she is no longer at the beginning.
And where, in their mad state, is he?
How can she tell him she's no longer married? Mother fucker, what is she to him?
She sits on the toilet lid, legs crossed, and body doubled over. She worries her bottom lip and hangs her head, shaking it back and forth, her emotions on a swing, vacillating.
Rocking to and fro, she can't believe for one second that he would want to stay with her.
His actions, at times, may seem loving and tender, but he never has words. Where are the words?
She gets up and paces with fisted hands at her temples. He's such a jerk, an arrogant prick.
She called him out on it the first night she met him, she recalls, with a sour stomach. She wants to gag.
The loyalties she's lost over the years do not compare to this.
And who is to say that if she confesses, it would make him happy?
What if he felt betrayed that she didn't tell him earlier?
She is only certain of one thing: If he rejects her, it would not be just another heart break.
It would be her first.
XxX
Coming out of the bathroom, she has on her red coat and chews on flavor-less anger just to stand upright.
The bed has been stripped of its sheets, exposing a blue foam mattress and box spring, and the pillows have been cast off to a puffy pile on the floor.
She squeezes her eyes at the sight, bunching the fabric lining in her coat pockets until her knuckles are white.
He is in the kitchen with his back to her, wearing nothing but grey long johns, having become immune to the chill in his loft. She appreciates him privately, noting his spine is a knotted rope mounted on the ledges of his back muscles; every move he makes, every gesture, and the machine twists and pulls in a harmony of angles like a modern-day Vitruvian Man.
Her hands have played there. Her fingernails itch.
His dark hair is red-tinted under the flood of fluorescent light, in such disarray from her hands and his. She smiles tenderly at his endearing lack of modesty, almost always stripped for her.
She watches him, quietly, as he grabs a frying pan, plunking it down on the gas burner, and setting the heat to High. He opens the refrigerator and reaches for a carton of eggs, opens it, and bends his head to take a cautious sniff.
She can't fight the giggle that flitters out of her turmoil.
"Oh," he says turning around, startled she is there. Fleetingly, his eyes take in the red coat and the sight instinctively forces out an invitation that he does not mean to give.
"I was making breakfast. Eggs. Want some?" He turns back to the stove, ignoring the red coat and reaching for the oil. He cracks two eggs into the sizzling pan. They immediately curl crispy at the edges.
"I was thinking I should make my way home today." Her emotions speak without her mind's permission, passively throwing the ball in his court.
"Okay," he shrugs, deflecting.
His relief is tied up in panic, feeling his control slip. Having decided to let her go today, he never thought about the how and the repercussion.
Looking over his shoulder, he evenly tells her she can eat before she leaves. The knot tying her coat is loose. He wants to give it a little pull, wanting to see her undone one final time.
He can't take his eyes away from that knot. It mocks the one in his heart. She is talking to him, but he's not listening.
"What?" He takes a step in her direction.
Bella points at the stove in alarm. "The eggs! They're burning."
"Shit!" Edward scoots the handle, taking the pan is off the burner before the smoke detector goes off.
"You had the fire on too high," she admonishes in a small voice.
He runs a hand through his hair and down his face. "Yeah, I get that," he concedes through clenched teeth. "Why don't you make some toast and I'll start again."
Resignedly, he throws the pan in the sink, re-lights the burner with a lighter, and listens for the gas to catch flame.
XxX
Her coat is thrown over the back of her chair. They eat perfectly cooked fried eggs and toast. He turned up the TV earlier and there's nothing on but news about the historic blizzard, holding the City hostage.
He's ready to tear his hair out.
They eat silently, but inside, their minds chorus and chant.
Silverware scrapes.
He douses his eggs in ketchup and sops up the yolk with thick, buttered toast.
She adds salt and eats the egg whites, put off by the runny yellow congealing on the tines of her fork.
Edward takes a bite of egg-covered toast and narrows his eyes at her plate. "You don't like your eggs?"
Swallowing she smiles reassuringly, "No, they're fine, I never eat the yolk. I just eat around it."
He puts his fork down and looks at the door behind her. "Maybe this isn't working."
"Don't worry, the eggs are fine. It's just…"
"No," he interrupts again, attempting to explain, but the words are lodged in his throat by a large chunk of despair.
He swallows and everything hardens. "This isn't working, Bella. It's a bust."
When his inclement tone enters, the vice wraps cold within, and she prays she's getting the wrong message. "Seriously, Edward, it's just eggs. The toast..."
His chair drags on the linoleum and he stands with his plate. "It's not about the fucking eggs, Bella," he says, exasperated.
And she knows.
Anger wants a go at him. Fucking jerk, how dare he? Who does he think he is?
Fear wants to get on its knees. No, no, I want to stay. Say I can stay.
"Then what is it about," she asks, standing up abruptly, her hand on the chair for balance.
He has his back to her, arms wide over the kitchen sink. Now that he's put the first foot forward, he's going to continue until he can climb out, tuning out until he can no longer hear his heart beat.
"Nothing. A distraction. I don't want this anymore."
Every insecurity washes over her. Figures; if she couldn't make it with a boy, how did she ever expect to make it with this man?
"A distraction? That's it?"
"That's it. There's nothing more you can take from me." This much he knows is true. She's a married woman, and by all rights, not his for the taking or the wanting. Last night's amplified fear kept him awake and cold. He sat for hours with the TV on, looking out the window, watching her sleep, pacing a remorseful track around the room, caged.
"God, Edward, I just want…" to tell you. But she's a mess inside, caught completely off guard by his sudden hostility. She has so much to say and if she opens her mouth, she's afraid it won't make a dent in his newly-donned armor.
You want my fucking soul, he thinks bitterly. She's had her fun, he's had his fun. Now he wants peace and the end to this needle-nosed torment nipping at his heart.
Turning around, he crosses his arms and legs, reclining on the kitchen counter, stonily watching her and daring her to test his resolve.
She's never seen this man before.
His body is a box of tightened muscle and he needs her out of there before his pride rips them in two. With a raised brow of indifference he spits out, "Didn't you say you needed to get home?"
It's enough. She gets it. If she hears anymore rejection, his floor will be covered in regurgitated egg whites and misery.
"Just like this," she mumbles dejectedly, picking up her coat, putting it on, moving the hair behind her collar and opening her mouth to speak parting words.
She's mute with confusion and anger.
"Just like this," he echoes as she grabs her purse and turns away from him.
She needs air.
When the door shuts, so do his eyes.
A/N:
I think I owe Write On Time and CescaMarie money for the couch time this week.
