Author: verbatim
Disclaimer: They belong to whomever they belong to, which, may I add, is not me.
Rating: PG to PG13, I'm not your mother, do whatever you wish.
Feedback: Please?
A/N: Sorry, I don't write happily-ever-after's. [C/G]
Curse
"I slow dance to this romance on my own...."
- The Wallflowers
You sit beside him in silence outside on the cool stone steps leading up to his townhouse. You pull your jacket around you, trying to keep out the chilly wind from sliding against your neck. He still has made no attempt to say anything. You are impatient, but still, you don't speak. You've said all you wanted to say. Now it's his turn to verbalize the emotions you know he's hiding. You wait.
You tip your head back to stare at the sky. It is black as coal. A low rumbling comes from the right and you can make out the blinking lights of an airplane - an airplane going to places you've only seen in the National Geographic magazines you flip through when you're over at his house. Budapest, Hong Kong, Fiji Islands, Venice, Cairo, Victoria Falls; they are places you can only dream of, and sadly, nothing more. Your eyes follow the jet until it disappears from view, and once again the silence leaves you to wonder whether he will speak or whether you will leave without ever knowing what was going on in that cursed mind of his. You exhale loudly and watch your smoky breath form in the air and curl its way heavenward.
Finally you can't take the silence anymore and you demand from him a word. He looks at you stupidly in utter bewilderment. He mumbles something about Charlemagne and the Treaty of Verdun, making some ludicrous connection to your situation. You roll your eyes; he never fails to avoid the subject.
You hate him for dealing with life so meticulously as if it were some chemical formula, mathematical equation. Not everything can balance, not everything can add up; no matter how hard you try. He separates his life into segments, puts them in jars, and lines them up one after the other on the shelf to decay without ever experiencing it. Life, to him, is just to look at; never to enjoy. Life is to be framed, to be hung on a nail on the perfect wall for display.
You stand up in rank frustration. He calls out after you: Catherine, wait -
For what? you snap back.
He doesn't say anything. Exasperated, you stalk off into the darkness, knowing he won't follow you. You know he won't. You know it. He has eleven hours. He has eleven hours to convince you, and at that, you know he won't attempt it. You know he won't. You know it, and you curse yourself for being right every time.
[the end]
Disclaimer: They belong to whomever they belong to, which, may I add, is not me.
Rating: PG to PG13, I'm not your mother, do whatever you wish.
Feedback: Please?
A/N: Sorry, I don't write happily-ever-after's. [C/G]
Curse
"I slow dance to this romance on my own...."
- The Wallflowers
You sit beside him in silence outside on the cool stone steps leading up to his townhouse. You pull your jacket around you, trying to keep out the chilly wind from sliding against your neck. He still has made no attempt to say anything. You are impatient, but still, you don't speak. You've said all you wanted to say. Now it's his turn to verbalize the emotions you know he's hiding. You wait.
You tip your head back to stare at the sky. It is black as coal. A low rumbling comes from the right and you can make out the blinking lights of an airplane - an airplane going to places you've only seen in the National Geographic magazines you flip through when you're over at his house. Budapest, Hong Kong, Fiji Islands, Venice, Cairo, Victoria Falls; they are places you can only dream of, and sadly, nothing more. Your eyes follow the jet until it disappears from view, and once again the silence leaves you to wonder whether he will speak or whether you will leave without ever knowing what was going on in that cursed mind of his. You exhale loudly and watch your smoky breath form in the air and curl its way heavenward.
Finally you can't take the silence anymore and you demand from him a word. He looks at you stupidly in utter bewilderment. He mumbles something about Charlemagne and the Treaty of Verdun, making some ludicrous connection to your situation. You roll your eyes; he never fails to avoid the subject.
You hate him for dealing with life so meticulously as if it were some chemical formula, mathematical equation. Not everything can balance, not everything can add up; no matter how hard you try. He separates his life into segments, puts them in jars, and lines them up one after the other on the shelf to decay without ever experiencing it. Life, to him, is just to look at; never to enjoy. Life is to be framed, to be hung on a nail on the perfect wall for display.
You stand up in rank frustration. He calls out after you: Catherine, wait -
For what? you snap back.
He doesn't say anything. Exasperated, you stalk off into the darkness, knowing he won't follow you. You know he won't. You know it. He has eleven hours. He has eleven hours to convince you, and at that, you know he won't attempt it. You know he won't. You know it, and you curse yourself for being right every time.
[the end]