Ch. 11

Hot water kept running over her wrinkled finger tips. Very soon, Cristina Yang would transfigure into a dried prune. As in the past few nights, the concept of time was lost in the overpowering embrace of the steam in the shower room.

The moment she turned off the tap, cold air rushed in and made her shiver. Looking at the blue scrubs lying on the wooden bench, Cristina couldn't help but question the need to wash herself from head to toe. Why bother if her daily destination was always the dusty couch in Burke's room?.

Nobody told her to stay in that room. In fact, nobody allowed it. But there she was, night after night.

Habits were easy to form, difficult to kick.

The couch clearly had registered the shape of Cristina's body, just as she had become accustomed to the hollowness in her relationship with Burke.

How naïve it was to think that they would be fine again after the second surgery. They were not fine. This was not fine. Besides, fine was mediocre in disguise. Cristina was not a fan of mediocrity.

Perfection was what she desired. Burke was perfect. Having a relationship with him was perfect. But this overly high standard of perfection was wearing them out.

Nobody was ever perfect. Sooner or later, they had to embrace the imperfections in life.

Walking towards Burke's bed on tiptoe, Cristina observed the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. It didn't matter whether he was only pretending to be asleep. All she wanted was to have a closer look at the big boy, whose juvenile behavior appalled and amused her at the same time.

Cristina could have brought the story to a perfect ending sooner by talking first, but she was still not ready to give in.

So long as they didn't speak, it was just a game. They could throw the ball of silence back and forth.

Their current relationship was like a bike ride on a circus rope. As long as the rope was hanging in one piece, Cristina would rather take the risk up there than jumping down to face that whole can of worms crawling on the ground.

Tucking the blanket under his chin, Cristina placed her hand on top of his before tiptoing back to the couch.

Another round of staring game was about to begin. It would be yet another sleepless night, but the room always felt warmer when two souls were breathing in the same air.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Her hand was light and tiny, but it was as firm as the paper weight on his desk. Had he been a man of less self-control, Burke would have sprung his hand to pull her down to his bed.

The hospital bed was small and hard, but it was becoming Burke's favorite place. It gave the best vantage point for him to play the staring game with Cristina every night, after the termination of her footsteps announced her arrival to the couch.

Every playground had its own rules. The one Burke and Cristina abided by was bizarre in anbody's eyes.

Every night, they stared at one another. Sometimes there was a smirk on their face, but they never allowed one single syllable to slip out of their mouth.

Nobody knew who was winning, but truly it was the process that mattered more than anything.

And then she would fall asleep. Burke always made sure she was the first to fall asleep, so that he could get off his bed, kneel down by the couch, and fork through her messy curls.

The sprightly fragrance was better than any cure for insomnia. Burke was glad that she brought her shower gel to the hospital.

The urge to talk was like a flicker of light surrounded by complete darkness. Burke could almost hear himself chuckle whenever he thought about how childish they had been.

But it wasn't only just a game. It was a time-out zone, the penalty box where acting silly and messing around was possible without any hard and hostile feelings evoked.

Burke wanted things to be fine, but if he was to speak first, he didn't know what should be said. The fact that Cristina reported him to the Chief still lingered on his mind, but it had become hazy to him whether it was an apology he wanted or something more than that.

When Addison said it's pathetic, Burke was apt to defend himself and claimed that he didn't do anything wrong. As he was stroking Cristina's hair, however, he began to lick his lip and ponder-- Why didn't Cristina seem to think she had done something wrong? Why was she always so self-righteous?

Perhaps Burke let Cristina rule his world. He allowed it to happen and never stopped her, until it was too late. Perhaps there really was a reason for her to think she was right.

The heart might be willing, but the tongue was weak. They owed each other an apology, but before they knew how to do it without re-opening fatal wounds, the strange silence marred by foolishness was the most delicate layer of ice the couple could skate on.

Of course, it wouldn't be much longer before winter was over and the ocean warmed up again.