A/N: So I realize that it's grossly unfair that I don't update this story all summer, and then I go ahead and post what is essentially a 250 word drabble. I feel like half my life is spent wishing that I could be writing fanfiction and the other half is spent trying to get back into writing fanfiction. And that is basically what this is: me getting back into it…again. Sigh.
Warnings: Hark! A femslash! Way on the distant horizon!
Disclaimer: This was written while listening to The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Sybris, and St. Vincent. So I suppose those could be considered influences.
Less of a Fall (More of a Force Diagram)
She fell in love quickly and painfully – like waking up to a buzzing pager and a raging hangover after two hours of sleep. It was sterile. It was necessary. It was taking a gulp of fresh air – only slightly tainted with chlorine – after a forced period of submerged stagnation.
Like licking your lips.
It was calculated. It would last no less than a month. And no more than a year. She could track the trajectory if she so desired, but it didn't much interest her. A year. She mentally toasted herself. Imaginary glasses clinked (hollow and plastic) as they made contact with one another. Champagne (sticky and too sweet) bubbled over the edge and landed, fizzing, on the cheap IKEA table of her mind. A year to remember briefly, uncomfortably, and then push away until the next necessary duration came to pass.
Like biting your nails.
It was a procedure, just like everything else in her meticulous, drill dictated life. Filling out paper work (inky lines and bleach-dyed, perfect sheets). Making coffee (caffeine with a touch of chemical flavor). Waking up (headaches and a relentless buzzer). She flipped open her phone. The buttons stuck with age and her own nervous sweat as she dialed the number. Buttons, plastic, even the electric current running through the device all seemed ridiculous. But then, so did the rest of the world.
Like lighting up a cigarette.
"April?" she asked sharply (shooting a needle-thin projectile into an eternity of static).
"What," it was, curiously enough, not a question.
"We need to talk."
It's just another habit.