August
He is much older than her and far more experienced in life. It is written on his face, on the slowness of his movements, it even rings in his voice and his choice of words.
At the moment, he's not looking at her. He stares into coffee he hasn't drunk. His fingers rubbing along the handle but never picking it up. So lonesome.
Even though she is in the room, willing to speak with him, she knows she can't impart wisdom or heal invisible wounds. Small talk seems rather pathetic at this point… they'd run out of things to say several meetings back… so silence remains between them amongst the clatter of the bustling coffee shop during lunch time.
She wonders how people can stay broken for so long. The man before her being the perfect example. If there was a way she could ask without sounding cruel, she would. She would question relentlessly. Perhaps if she were braver, she'd find a way to help him. But every time she opens her mouth it dries up, and her stomach turns. She doesn't know how to start such a conversation or where it would lead. Words seem to do little good in times like these.
Her green eyes go to the side to look at the watch on her wrist. She hasn't shown up and ten minutes have passed since the scheduled start of the "appointment." And yet he still comes, every time, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. She watches him walk in and find a table from the window by her desk.
The hair on her arms raise; she looks up and into black eyes. They are solemn, tired, and empty. His lips tilt up in society's way of easing another mind and he gives a shrug as if it doesn't bother him. But she knows it does. And there is nothing she can possibly do except watch. It makes her so angry, so frustrated, that her lips almost curl in disgust.
She remembers her place, and in her place she stays.
She gives a nod to him in acknowledgement and tries to appear apathetic—he isn't a man to be pitied. She'd learned that in their first coffee conversation. She tilts her head to the side and looks back at her wrist.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
Forty-five.
The chimes of the shop ring. The woman walks in, heels clicking.
Mui drops her purse into the seat beside Sakura, next to the man. The stench of cologne infiltrates Sakura's nose; it doesn't belong to the man that had been awaiting his wife's arrival.
Mui makes up an excuse about traffic of all things.
Green eyes close to get rid of the sight of the woman kissing the man's cheek and to stop herself from getting angry. But she is furious. Furious with both deserved justice and jealousy. In the way he looks at her, the way he cares for her. The way his focus is upon her and only her, it is as if she is the center of everything. When he is in her presence, he is a different person. He has such devotion, such love.
Yet she has no one, nor has she ever received such attention. Her heart prickles with pain at the smallest of actions. Her heart covets even the simple hand squeeze he bestows upon her.
The actions sicken her stomach, making her taste acid. Her cheeks flush and her grip tightens. Her pounding heart thumps so loud in her ears that it almost covers his soft words: I've missed you. But it doesn't and she still hears them. How many times has she heard them? How many more times?
I missed you too.
Liar. Adulteress.
She opens her eyes after they have finished their greetings and have turned to her. She smiles because it's ingrained within her by her work to be professional.
"How have things been going for you, Mui?" She doesn't know where to truly begin; she's never been trained for this. Her best friend's mother, almost a second mother to her, had come begging for help. Sakura's a therapist, surely, she could give counseling.
Her friend's mother really hadn't understood anything about therapy or ADA or how counseling a 'friend' or 'family friend' could put a termination to Sakura's entire career. She's not supposed to even have a friendship with her clients. Not to mention Sakura isn't a marriage counselor. So this sham had been devised. A coffee-chat-slash-neutral zone arena, where the two of them could meet and work it out.
Not that it really had gone anywhere. For one, Mui could never make it within a time frame. For two, Sakura shouldn't have accepted this at all and all her attempts have been pitiful at best. She would have ended it after the first meeting, if Madara hadn't confessed this was the only shot, he'd get. Mui wouldn't agree to go to a real professional, which is why the scheme from Mikoto had been designed.
In truth. All Sakura has accomplished is another wasted lunch hour. Watching the man before her at each passing meeting, breaks her heart a little more each time.
Sakura takes a deep breath; she only has five minutes before she needs to head back to her real job. She tries to tread softly on the real problem, the reason there here because they are running out of time. But words fall short.
The woman twitches, eyes narrow and then she snorts.
"Mui, I'm just trying to–," Sakura attempts to stop the outburst she knows will come. She doesn't even know what she's trying to do at this point. But it's the wrong thing to say, she's yet to find the right one.
Mui reacts in hushed angry whispers, demanding she and her husband leave, go to someone who knows what they are doing.
The woman is right; Sakura doesn't know what she is doing. But this is the opening she's been waiting for. An agreement that Mui go to real care.
"I'm not here as a counselor, but as a friend." Sakura corrects with a wince keeping her voice just as low and hushed. This had been a terrible idea. She's neither of their friends, just a neutral third-party but that is councilor territory, and she must keep her words straight. She'd like to think by now, Madara and she were somewhat friends by having spent many of their lunch hours together chatting. But Mui, maybe just five minutes at most.
She digs into her pockets and pulls out three business cards of some of the best marriage counselors in this city and the one nearby. "But I have some recommendations here for you."
Mui takes them, at least.
But the look upon Madara's features cut through her, the end has finally come at last. Yet he stands straight, thanks her for her time and escorts his wife out.
She watches them leave together and exchange a short conversation before splitting ways once they exit the establishment. Her gaze follows the woman as she is the only one still in view. The cards get tossed into the bin on the corner of the street, the woman not even pausing to look back.
Sakura gaze slides to her watch.
Forty-nine.
There is only so much she can take; so much she can deal with; so many times she can sit and do nothing. She cannot handle her own emotions anymore. She cannot watch his broken life, so much a reflection of her own. Above all, she cannot help him any longer, because it is obviously clear that she has no power in which to help.
She can't save this though. Day one, she should have known. She's not even in a relationship. She specializes in food disorders. Not marital issues. She'd specified in her field because that was what she understood the best.
She remembers their first meeting, his empty and desperate gaze looking right through her. The words echo in her head. "I don't want to lose her."
Why and how could he be so devoted? She hangs her head at her own helplessness and the shame of her jealous thoughts. She would give anything to be so cherished. She would give anything to help him, to help them. It's painful to be so incompetent.
She busses the table, handling the porcelain cups with care and pours out the full cup of coffee the man had never touched. She gathers her purse and returns to her job.
Sakura forces a smile to her face, makes small talk with the secretary about the remaining appointments of the day and what they plan to do after work, but she can't get Madara's words out of her head. He's lost her. Each breath feels too deep in her lungs and yet it's like she can barely get air..
She closes the doors to her room, and collapses in her chair. She rubs her temples and raises her gaze to the clock on the wall.
Fifty-nine.
She straightens her hunched form, rises once more to her feet. She buttons her blazer, wipes at her eyes, and then goes to fetch her next patient.
September
She sways on the porch swing, back and forth. She rests her head back and stares up at the dark sky. There are no stars visible and there is the sound of rumble from a far off thunderstorm.
"Here."
Sakura reaches out, not removing her eyes, and takes the cold beer from his hands. "Thank you, Sasuke."
He sits beside her, a beer in his hand as well. "He'll be ok, Sakura. I know my uncle, it may take some time but he'll be ok."
"Ah…" She takes a sip, her eyes still not leaving the sky. Her heart hurts; her head hurts. The news still echoes around in her thoughts, over and over. She looks down at the beer, feeling nauseous.
"They were barely married for three years. He got over his last wife enough to marry this one; he's going to be fine. She didn't even get a lot of money out of the deal," Sasuke continues talking and the words become muted as she tries to grasp the finality the news wrought.
She'd hoped for a better ending. She really had. She may have hated that woman, but she had wanted the best for him. It had been obvious that his happiness relied on her. She had failed. She had failed miserably. Why had she gotten involved with them? Why had they asked her, when they knew she couldn't say no? Why, oh why?
A hand grabs at her shoulder and she turns then to look into the dark eyes of her good friend. He presses his forehead to hers as if to comfort her, but she can barely feel the touch. He pulls her into a side hug and he breathes out a heavy sigh. "It's not your fault. You know that, don't you?"
"Ah." She gives a half-nod, not really committing to an answer, but trying to please him at the same time. She knows that it wasn't all her fault, but her job had been to reconcile the two. Obviously some of the blame rested on her.
"I mean it. Everyone in our family bet against them. We all thought they'd end it within the first year."
Again she gives another half-nod and tries to tug away from his grip. He lets her go and she sips at the beer in her hands. The cold liquid that usually refreshes her seems to taste even bitterer than usual. She looks back up at the sky, just to stare into the illusion of vast emptiness caused by the night sky and thick clouds. If only her mind was such, then she wouldn't feel the pain she did now.
The man beside her lets out another sigh. "I'm sorry I let my mom push you into this. She just wants Uncle Madara to be happy."
Her lips tilt up ever so slightly although she feels no happiness, "He's her little brother, of course she wants him to be happy." He was a good man; he deserved to be happy and she tells Sasuke as much.
He starts laughing, his shoulders shaking although there is the lack of true mirth. "Sakura, my uncle, can give as good as he gets. You only saw one side of the situation."
"You don't understand; he was so dedicated to her."
Sasuke sighs at the remark and then taps her forehead, making her turn to look at him. "Listen to me, Sakura, such zealous devotion can be constricting to the person they are projected on."
The words hit her hard, like a quick slap of a hand.
"No," he says immediately, realizing what he has said, "I didn't mean it like…" He takes a breath; his eyes look at the glass in his hand. "It wasn't like that between you and me. I was just—" He fails to complete a proper sentence and his excuses die away into being young and stupid, and again they are both swinging, back and forth.
"I know," she tells him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I know." But it doesn't matter if she knows he didn't mean it like that. The words have been said and she knows he is speaking from experience, his experience with her.
She lets silence be the conversation as she turns back to look at the sky. She gains control over her features and makes a blank façade to cover the pain she feels. Perhaps that is why she wanted him to have a happy ending. She could see herself so easily in his position; if he was able to be happy then there was hope for herself as well. But there were no happy endings in this world, were there? People like her, like him, were easily manipulated, tossed aside and harmed by others. They possessed too much feeling, too much attachment. Was it wrong to love someone so much?
She takes another drink, tilting her head back and draining the bottle. She gives her friend a pat on the shoulder, telling him about her early work day. She excuses herself and shakes him off when he offers to escort her home, only a couple blocks away.
Her heels click upon the sidewalk and for a moment she wishes to run, run as far away as she can so she doesn't have to deal with the heavy thoughts that plague her mind. But she doesn't. She continues down the street to an empty house that could use some work, a light inside, the smell of home cooked food and another person to greet. But tonight has reaffirmed the decision she made so long ago.
The house will remain as is.
The only work will be done by her hands or paid with her money. She will be the only one to flip the light switch, to make her own bed, to talk to the empty walls. Promising to herself that she will never allow her kindness and love to be taken advantage of, she makes her way up her driveway. She will not put her happiness in the hands of another; she's seen what a mistake that is and felt the consequences. She will not be broken, not again.
She pulls her keys from her purse and opens the door to her house. Walking inside, she locks the door behind her. She slides down the wall, her butt resting upon the wooden flooring.
And to her own shame, she then cries
Special thanks to Hushnelle (FF) for beta-ing this work (ch: 1-thru-5) many years ago.
Last Edit: 9/06/22
