vi. private thoughts
Kate was managing with mild success to fry some canned potatoes while John eyed a can of Spam warily. "Do you -really- think it's okay?"
"Well," she replied, poking at the potatoes with a spatula, "open it and see how it smells."
"I really don't think that'll tell me anything."
She gave him a look, and he reluctantly opened the can, turning his face away. He peered at its contents and ever so slightly sniffed them. "I don't know."
Kate grabbed the can from him, smelled it, and unceremoniously dumped its contents in the frying pan. "It's fine," she said with finality. John felt nauseous.
Once the meal was as ready as it was going to be, they sat down in their makeshift breakfast nook and cautiously began to eat. It tasted decidedly less toxic than expected, and they ate with a bit more gusto.
John eventually looked up at Kate and said, "Tell me about Scott."
Kate paused, a forkful of food suspended in midair. She put her fork down, looking at her ring. "It's sad for so many reasons, but there isn't really much to tell," she answered quietly. "Scott was just your average nice guy with a nice job . . . . We met last year at a conference, and there was an attraction there. And don't get me wrong, I loved him, but. . . . The whole marriage thing was starting to freak me out. I didn't feel the way I felt I should be feeling, you know?"
He really didn't, but he nodded.
"I was feeling more and more trapped as the days passed, but I didn't know how to tell him. . . . I didn't want to break his heart." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I guess now it doesn't matter."
John looked awkwardly down at his plate.
"And I guess now," she continued, getting up from the table, "there's no reason for me to continue wearing this." She took off the ring and put it on a side table, next to a vase with no flowers. -Bye Scott,- she thought to herself.
Kate returned to the table and they continued eating in silence.
-----
That night John found Kate writing in one of the notebooks. "If I don't start writing now, I'll never start," she said without looking up. "And I think it's important to keep some record of what's happening."
The camera was sitting on an end table. Without a word, John picked it up and took a picture of her. She smiled but kept writing.
He sat next to her on the couch to watch the picture develop. Kate clutched the notebook to her chest in protest. "You're going to peek!" she objected playfully.
"No, I'm not," he replied defensively, though he would have given his left arm to see.
She lowered the notebook hesitantly. "Well, all right. I guess we shouldn't really keep things from each other, anyway."
"Well, there's keeping secrets and then there's having one's own private thoughts. . . .We can still have those." He caught her eye and held it a little too long. He then began to furiously shake the picture, even though it was through developing. She smiled and began writing furiously in her notebook.
He looked down at the picture, feeling like a freaking teenager. Part of him felt guilty for even smiling, after all that had happened. But they were still human, and if they were going to save humanity they needed to hold onto their own.
Kate paused in her writing to watch John leave the room. When he was gone she took the Polaroid of him out of the notebook and looked at it for a few moments, then put it back and tapped her pen against the paper, thinking.
She thought it would be easier to write about everything if she was writing -to- someone, but she didn't want it to feel like a teenage girl's diary. So with a modicum of discomfort she decided to write to her children, hoping that it could explain some things she may not have the time to impart in the future.
She had spent the afternoon writing about her life before now, and she found herself with nothing more to say. Everything she had done in the past seemed so unimportant now, except. . .
-Your father and I first met when we were teenagers,- she wrote. -He was an ill-tempered foster kid with this weird past that, at the time, I never knew about completely. I developed a crush on him pretty quickly; girls always like the "bad boys," of course. But it was like there was a reason he was always so angry and against everybody, and it made his anger seem like inner strength instead of brattiness. I started trying to hang around him, as young girls will, and he seemed to take a liking to me, and well, one night at a friend's house we- Kate was unsure how to tell this part. -admitted we liked each other. He was the first boy I ever kissed, and I woke up pretty happy the next day. But then something happened that day and he disappeared. I really missed him and worried about him for the longest time, until I finally had to make the decision to forget about him. And ten years later, here we are. FATE is real, kids.-
Kate put the notebook down, a bit drained. She was lost in the innocent world of eighth grade, when she was giddy from kissing a boy she liked. Her children would never know that, she realized. They would never know innocence and teenage silliness. Kate was suddenly very lonely, and she went to find John.
She found him in the bedroom, writing in the tattered journal she had seen in his knapsack. He looked up when she entered and smiled a little. "I can write down my thoughts, too," he said in mock defense.
"Of course you can," she replied primly, though she would have given her left arm to see.
She climbed up onto the bed next to him and wrapped an arm in his. Resting her head on his shoulder, she said, "Did you ever get really depressed thinking about the future? How everything would die, or change?"
He carefully put the weathered old journal on the end table. "The first part of my life, I didn't have a chance to experience life without the knowledge that it would all end. So I never really got that 'don't know what you've got 'til it's gone' feeling.
"But after the day he came back and we destroyed Cyberdyne, I started to see everything differently. I realized that there were beautiful things and people and places in the world, and as miserable as my life was, I hoped against hope that we really had prevented the war. And now that it's happened anyway . . . yeah, it's depressing."
He was silent for a moment, then added oh so quietly, "I don't know what I would do if you weren't here."
"Same here," she replied just as quietly. They somewhat awkwardly put their arms around each other and drifted off to sleep rather contentedly, given their circumstances.
Kate was managing with mild success to fry some canned potatoes while John eyed a can of Spam warily. "Do you -really- think it's okay?"
"Well," she replied, poking at the potatoes with a spatula, "open it and see how it smells."
"I really don't think that'll tell me anything."
She gave him a look, and he reluctantly opened the can, turning his face away. He peered at its contents and ever so slightly sniffed them. "I don't know."
Kate grabbed the can from him, smelled it, and unceremoniously dumped its contents in the frying pan. "It's fine," she said with finality. John felt nauseous.
Once the meal was as ready as it was going to be, they sat down in their makeshift breakfast nook and cautiously began to eat. It tasted decidedly less toxic than expected, and they ate with a bit more gusto.
John eventually looked up at Kate and said, "Tell me about Scott."
Kate paused, a forkful of food suspended in midair. She put her fork down, looking at her ring. "It's sad for so many reasons, but there isn't really much to tell," she answered quietly. "Scott was just your average nice guy with a nice job . . . . We met last year at a conference, and there was an attraction there. And don't get me wrong, I loved him, but. . . . The whole marriage thing was starting to freak me out. I didn't feel the way I felt I should be feeling, you know?"
He really didn't, but he nodded.
"I was feeling more and more trapped as the days passed, but I didn't know how to tell him. . . . I didn't want to break his heart." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I guess now it doesn't matter."
John looked awkwardly down at his plate.
"And I guess now," she continued, getting up from the table, "there's no reason for me to continue wearing this." She took off the ring and put it on a side table, next to a vase with no flowers. -Bye Scott,- she thought to herself.
Kate returned to the table and they continued eating in silence.
-----
That night John found Kate writing in one of the notebooks. "If I don't start writing now, I'll never start," she said without looking up. "And I think it's important to keep some record of what's happening."
The camera was sitting on an end table. Without a word, John picked it up and took a picture of her. She smiled but kept writing.
He sat next to her on the couch to watch the picture develop. Kate clutched the notebook to her chest in protest. "You're going to peek!" she objected playfully.
"No, I'm not," he replied defensively, though he would have given his left arm to see.
She lowered the notebook hesitantly. "Well, all right. I guess we shouldn't really keep things from each other, anyway."
"Well, there's keeping secrets and then there's having one's own private thoughts. . . .We can still have those." He caught her eye and held it a little too long. He then began to furiously shake the picture, even though it was through developing. She smiled and began writing furiously in her notebook.
He looked down at the picture, feeling like a freaking teenager. Part of him felt guilty for even smiling, after all that had happened. But they were still human, and if they were going to save humanity they needed to hold onto their own.
Kate paused in her writing to watch John leave the room. When he was gone she took the Polaroid of him out of the notebook and looked at it for a few moments, then put it back and tapped her pen against the paper, thinking.
She thought it would be easier to write about everything if she was writing -to- someone, but she didn't want it to feel like a teenage girl's diary. So with a modicum of discomfort she decided to write to her children, hoping that it could explain some things she may not have the time to impart in the future.
She had spent the afternoon writing about her life before now, and she found herself with nothing more to say. Everything she had done in the past seemed so unimportant now, except. . .
-Your father and I first met when we were teenagers,- she wrote. -He was an ill-tempered foster kid with this weird past that, at the time, I never knew about completely. I developed a crush on him pretty quickly; girls always like the "bad boys," of course. But it was like there was a reason he was always so angry and against everybody, and it made his anger seem like inner strength instead of brattiness. I started trying to hang around him, as young girls will, and he seemed to take a liking to me, and well, one night at a friend's house we- Kate was unsure how to tell this part. -admitted we liked each other. He was the first boy I ever kissed, and I woke up pretty happy the next day. But then something happened that day and he disappeared. I really missed him and worried about him for the longest time, until I finally had to make the decision to forget about him. And ten years later, here we are. FATE is real, kids.-
Kate put the notebook down, a bit drained. She was lost in the innocent world of eighth grade, when she was giddy from kissing a boy she liked. Her children would never know that, she realized. They would never know innocence and teenage silliness. Kate was suddenly very lonely, and she went to find John.
She found him in the bedroom, writing in the tattered journal she had seen in his knapsack. He looked up when she entered and smiled a little. "I can write down my thoughts, too," he said in mock defense.
"Of course you can," she replied primly, though she would have given her left arm to see.
She climbed up onto the bed next to him and wrapped an arm in his. Resting her head on his shoulder, she said, "Did you ever get really depressed thinking about the future? How everything would die, or change?"
He carefully put the weathered old journal on the end table. "The first part of my life, I didn't have a chance to experience life without the knowledge that it would all end. So I never really got that 'don't know what you've got 'til it's gone' feeling.
"But after the day he came back and we destroyed Cyberdyne, I started to see everything differently. I realized that there were beautiful things and people and places in the world, and as miserable as my life was, I hoped against hope that we really had prevented the war. And now that it's happened anyway . . . yeah, it's depressing."
He was silent for a moment, then added oh so quietly, "I don't know what I would do if you weren't here."
"Same here," she replied just as quietly. They somewhat awkwardly put their arms around each other and drifted off to sleep rather contentedly, given their circumstances.
