Wishing (I had a photograph of you)
Rob was very sweet. He's a lovely man, like a big dog. Gentle and considerate. Nothing dark or dangerous about him. And it just felt - wrong. Not lean hard muscle, not the confidence I learnt to take for granted. He doesn't set fire to my blood when he kisses me. I feel so guilty, push him away. See the dumb hurt in his eyes as I let him out the door, remember that look at the airport, covered up so quickly with a look of cool indifference.
~picture 12# seasons have changed in the background. some time has passed. she's walking through fallen leaves in a park, on her own. she doesn't look sad, just pensive.~
On my own again. Walking through the drifts of leaves. Looking up at a sky the exact colour of His eyes. He has acquired an intermittent capital in my mind - so much easier than saying his name. I miss him. I'm remembering so many things - not just the quick lunches snatched between meetings and lectures, but the fact that he would come across town for those half hours.
The day feels a lot colder. I turn for home. Miss the crisp air, the different smell. Brits can't do Hallowe'en.
Saw Rob again at a party - he still doesn't understand, thinks he did something wrong, pushed me too fast. It really wasn't him. We're still part of the same group, people juggling schedules so we don't meet that often. I'm on my own again for a while, as they knew him first, before they adjust. It doesn't get cold here, the way it does at home. No real snow. Another memory -trying to teach me to ski. I always felt that there was nothing that I could teach him. Why would he bother with a smalltown girl? And he would tell me not to be stupid. Too many arguments solved in bed, without talking it over. I never saw that it was normality that I gave him - the money and power got in the way, just in a different way.
The sports are different, too. Have to hunt around the late night schedules for imported hockey. Remember learning some new words from Mitch in NY - Polish is a great language for abuse.
Clark's first by-line at the 'Daily Planet' - and he got himself a new writing partner. For a long time I dreamt it might be Sullivan and Kent, but that dream gradually went. I will always be Sullivan. I don't need a partner. Not in my work. Even working for the 'Planet' doesn't have the same ring that it used to - going back to the city may no longer be an option. It could hurt too much. I have the whole world to choose from.
I miss the big skies of home. I miss watching the Metropolis Rangers. I miss knowing that somewhere someone will occasionally look up from his laptop and grab his jacket because it's lunchtime, and he promised.
***
Sitting in a pub, watching a big screen game interrupted by a newscast, footage of a holed tanker being pulled up out of the water by a little red and blue figure. Exclusive t.v interview with the Man of Steel. I see the face above the costume, turn his name into a strangled shriek. Search for a phone - damn the expense.
"Okay. Spill." I'm sitting in another pub, and Clark is experiencing British beer. "It would explain the exclusives. Who knows?"
"Er...only my parents."
"And Lex?" It's the first time I've said His name aloud for nearly a year.
"Probably. He knows most things." He gives me a quick look. "He still misses you."
"Could have fooled me." I stab my finger at the trashy magazine. Smarmy society get-together, one distinctive figure hung about with yet another Jet-Set Barbie.
"He does miss you. Went on a three-day bender after you left."
"Clark, every time I open one of these magazines, he's got another girl on his arm."
"But he never takes any of them home." he says quietly.
Have I misjudged him? Unlikely. He never struck me as a man who would stay celibate. If he did, then...I would have to re-evaluate.
"Don't try changing the subject. When? I can see why." I grin. "I like the emblem - I always knew you were jealous of those Crows jackets."
"Oh, please." But he flushes along the cheek-bones. Not grown out of that habit yet, then. The glasses are new, though. Suit him, and make his face a different shape. We talk work - photographers, deadlines, editors. He very carefully doesn't mention his writing partner, which I recognise as a very Clark sign. He asks if I'm seeing anyone, and then I know. And he knows that I know. So I tell him the truth - there could have been someone, but there isn't any longer. Clark understands how to put the pieces together, gives the magazine under my hand a long look.
"Chloe...you should know better than to believe the Press."
Not going there. Need to think about this.
He looks at his watch.
"Lunch break's over. I have to be back in the office in half an hour."
I blink. That statement takes a bit of processing. As he gets up to go, he says,
"He still wears your ring on a chain round his neck. Never takes it off."
Store that away. My ring. Not lost, but...treasured?
Rob was very sweet. He's a lovely man, like a big dog. Gentle and considerate. Nothing dark or dangerous about him. And it just felt - wrong. Not lean hard muscle, not the confidence I learnt to take for granted. He doesn't set fire to my blood when he kisses me. I feel so guilty, push him away. See the dumb hurt in his eyes as I let him out the door, remember that look at the airport, covered up so quickly with a look of cool indifference.
~picture 12# seasons have changed in the background. some time has passed. she's walking through fallen leaves in a park, on her own. she doesn't look sad, just pensive.~
On my own again. Walking through the drifts of leaves. Looking up at a sky the exact colour of His eyes. He has acquired an intermittent capital in my mind - so much easier than saying his name. I miss him. I'm remembering so many things - not just the quick lunches snatched between meetings and lectures, but the fact that he would come across town for those half hours.
The day feels a lot colder. I turn for home. Miss the crisp air, the different smell. Brits can't do Hallowe'en.
Saw Rob again at a party - he still doesn't understand, thinks he did something wrong, pushed me too fast. It really wasn't him. We're still part of the same group, people juggling schedules so we don't meet that often. I'm on my own again for a while, as they knew him first, before they adjust. It doesn't get cold here, the way it does at home. No real snow. Another memory -trying to teach me to ski. I always felt that there was nothing that I could teach him. Why would he bother with a smalltown girl? And he would tell me not to be stupid. Too many arguments solved in bed, without talking it over. I never saw that it was normality that I gave him - the money and power got in the way, just in a different way.
The sports are different, too. Have to hunt around the late night schedules for imported hockey. Remember learning some new words from Mitch in NY - Polish is a great language for abuse.
Clark's first by-line at the 'Daily Planet' - and he got himself a new writing partner. For a long time I dreamt it might be Sullivan and Kent, but that dream gradually went. I will always be Sullivan. I don't need a partner. Not in my work. Even working for the 'Planet' doesn't have the same ring that it used to - going back to the city may no longer be an option. It could hurt too much. I have the whole world to choose from.
I miss the big skies of home. I miss watching the Metropolis Rangers. I miss knowing that somewhere someone will occasionally look up from his laptop and grab his jacket because it's lunchtime, and he promised.
***
Sitting in a pub, watching a big screen game interrupted by a newscast, footage of a holed tanker being pulled up out of the water by a little red and blue figure. Exclusive t.v interview with the Man of Steel. I see the face above the costume, turn his name into a strangled shriek. Search for a phone - damn the expense.
"Okay. Spill." I'm sitting in another pub, and Clark is experiencing British beer. "It would explain the exclusives. Who knows?"
"Er...only my parents."
"And Lex?" It's the first time I've said His name aloud for nearly a year.
"Probably. He knows most things." He gives me a quick look. "He still misses you."
"Could have fooled me." I stab my finger at the trashy magazine. Smarmy society get-together, one distinctive figure hung about with yet another Jet-Set Barbie.
"He does miss you. Went on a three-day bender after you left."
"Clark, every time I open one of these magazines, he's got another girl on his arm."
"But he never takes any of them home." he says quietly.
Have I misjudged him? Unlikely. He never struck me as a man who would stay celibate. If he did, then...I would have to re-evaluate.
"Don't try changing the subject. When? I can see why." I grin. "I like the emblem - I always knew you were jealous of those Crows jackets."
"Oh, please." But he flushes along the cheek-bones. Not grown out of that habit yet, then. The glasses are new, though. Suit him, and make his face a different shape. We talk work - photographers, deadlines, editors. He very carefully doesn't mention his writing partner, which I recognise as a very Clark sign. He asks if I'm seeing anyone, and then I know. And he knows that I know. So I tell him the truth - there could have been someone, but there isn't any longer. Clark understands how to put the pieces together, gives the magazine under my hand a long look.
"Chloe...you should know better than to believe the Press."
Not going there. Need to think about this.
He looks at his watch.
"Lunch break's over. I have to be back in the office in half an hour."
I blink. That statement takes a bit of processing. As he gets up to go, he says,
"He still wears your ring on a chain round his neck. Never takes it off."
Store that away. My ring. Not lost, but...treasured?