Charlotte had woken first, disentangling herself from a mess of sheets and Vincent's body parts. She climbed out of bed and dressed quickly before Vincent could wake or pull her back in. Sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, she heard him moving in the bedroom before she saw him.
"Hey," he said, standing against the far wall with a towel around his waist.
Charlotte read a few more lines before looking up. "Hey," she replied, her face emotionless.
"How are you?"
Charlotte shrugged. "Alright. You?"
"Yeah, alright. Um ... are we ... we're OK, yeah?"
Charlotte took a sip of coffee and looked down at the newspaper again, then back at Vincent.
"I'm not sure."
"But you're still here. That's a good sign, right?"
Charlotte took a moment to think.
"I don't know," she decided. "I'm not sure what we need right now. More space, less space, answers, less talking. I don't know." She waited, then asked, "What do you think?"
"I think you don't want me to be in love with you."
Charlotte laughed cynically. "Well yeah, that's a good place to start," she said, looking up at him. "Can we do that though? Can we go down that road? Hash out all our problems without just dredging the past back up again? We both know we didn't work out, why not just leave it?"
Vincent took a few steps into the room. "Because it doesn't work like that, Charlotte. You can't just bury it all away and pretend it's not there. Every time I look at you I remember you being my wife. I remember holding you in my arms."
"Well don't," she interrupted harshly, rising from the seat. Throwing the newspaper on the bench, she grabbed her coat off the sofa. "Don't remember. We can't go there again. For whatever reason. My fault, your fault, it doesn't matter. It's over, Vincent. Get over it."
She stormed out of the apartment before he could move. His mind blank for things to say, he watched her go, then leant back against the wall.
"Hey," he said, standing against the far wall with a towel around his waist.
Charlotte read a few more lines before looking up. "Hey," she replied, her face emotionless.
"How are you?"
Charlotte shrugged. "Alright. You?"
"Yeah, alright. Um ... are we ... we're OK, yeah?"
Charlotte took a sip of coffee and looked down at the newspaper again, then back at Vincent.
"I'm not sure."
"But you're still here. That's a good sign, right?"
Charlotte took a moment to think.
"I don't know," she decided. "I'm not sure what we need right now. More space, less space, answers, less talking. I don't know." She waited, then asked, "What do you think?"
"I think you don't want me to be in love with you."
Charlotte laughed cynically. "Well yeah, that's a good place to start," she said, looking up at him. "Can we do that though? Can we go down that road? Hash out all our problems without just dredging the past back up again? We both know we didn't work out, why not just leave it?"
Vincent took a few steps into the room. "Because it doesn't work like that, Charlotte. You can't just bury it all away and pretend it's not there. Every time I look at you I remember you being my wife. I remember holding you in my arms."
"Well don't," she interrupted harshly, rising from the seat. Throwing the newspaper on the bench, she grabbed her coat off the sofa. "Don't remember. We can't go there again. For whatever reason. My fault, your fault, it doesn't matter. It's over, Vincent. Get over it."
She stormed out of the apartment before he could move. His mind blank for things to say, he watched her go, then leant back against the wall.
