Disclaimer: This is part of Slodwick's "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words" Challenge. The picture in question is here :http://hometown.aol.com/hyperfocused/page1.html
(it's an image of two glasses of fresh lemonade on a table, surrounded by greenery). I don't own Martha, Lex, or even Clark or Jonathan or Lionel. If I did, I'd serve them some nice lemonade and cookies.
Feedback is thirst quenching.
***
There's a trick to making the perfect glass of lemonade; a ratio of fresh squeezed juice to water to sugar. Too much sugar, and the tartness of the lemon is overpowered. You might as well be drinking grape soda, for all the refreshment you'll get. Too little, and you'll feel like every part of you has puckered closed. And don't dare blaspheme by mentioning the name _Country Time_.
Martha Kent's lemonade passes every taste test. Right now, she's pouring you each a glass, and motioning for you to sit down. Your legs are shaking, slightly, as you plant yourself in the care worn wooden kitchen chair, seat smoothed from years of Kent behinds. Condensation runs down the sides of the simple tumblers, mimicking the drops collecting on the back of your neck, and your knees. Martha's hand is trembling, too. It is a wonder she is not in worse shape. You marvel at her resilience, and think she passed it on to her son.
Twenty-four hours ago, you did not expect you would ever be here again. You certainly didn't dare hope. You pray that Martha doesn't know how much of this is your fault, but you're pretty sure that's why you are here. You're grateful the Kents aren't like the Luthors, or there might be arsenic adding a little something extra to your drink.
You stood outside the LuthorCorp high-rise, damning your father, and cursing your own folly. Inside, a "situation" you thought you had under control, was rapidly turning into a disaster, well outside your sphere of influence. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the building. Even as angry as you were at your father, you did not want him physically harmed. Certainly, you had no ill will for Martha. She'd always been a bonus in your relationship with Clark.
You take a sip of the lemonade, and remember the taste of it on Clark's tongue. Tart, and sweet, and altogether surprising. Just like the first time he kissed you.
That was the real surprise. You'd both played the attraction game -- flirting shamelessly, his grins, your eyes. You were just waiting for the right time. You always thought it would be you who made the first actual move.
You never told him how many nights you planned scenarios: *after a night of exciting-yet-suitable-for-teenagers partying in Metropolis; during DVD night at the mansion on a wintery evening (blankets handy, your arm wrapped sleepily around him, a mood inducing movie*). You didn't think Clark would be hard to convince.
Instead, it happened very simply. An impromptu, post-work visit to the farm; you were headachy and prickly from dealing with LexCorp hassles, and in no mood to go home and duel with your father.
Clark was doing homework in the barn. His smile, when he finally stopped reading to look up at you, smoothed away the stress of your day. He patted the sofa seat next to him, offered you the plate of cookies, and the rest of his lemonade, apologizing for having to share the glass. You didn't mind; you would have happily shared anything.
You munched together in companionable near silence, only the noises of your enjoyment breaking the stillness. The cookies must have just come out of the oven. They were still warm, and sticky sweet. You couldn't help feeling a little envy: Clark had a mother who had time to make homemade cookies for her beloved son. Somehow, the fact that you paid a chef to recreate gourmet recipes, didn't seem nearly as appealing.
What *was* appealing was the press of Clark's jean clad thigh, against your linen suit. You could smell him as he leaned in closer, reaching for another cookie. Hay, the cologne you had bought him for his last birthday (more expensive than he knew, made especially for him. You'd thought more about this supposedly casual gift than you had about many a business deal). His scent, mixed with the smells of chocolate and citrus, was heady and altogether too enticing. It was all you could do not to take an obvious sniff.
As it turned out, you didn't have to. Clark moved toward you, aligned his head with yours, and *kissed* you, tongue darting out to lick your lips. So sweet, and so welcome, finally. You were shocked into momentarily immobility, before you were able to kiss him back.
"I didn't have any napkins, either" Clark said. "and you had chocolate on your lips. I know how m you hate to be messy."
"I don't mind anything, with you, Clark," you tell him, as you put the cookie plate out of reach, and pull him to you. He tastes delicious, and you hope his parents stay away. You wonder if this would have happened even earlier, if you had taken Clark out for ribs. Your mind wanders to imagine licking Clark's saucy fingers clean.
Martha's cool hand on your arm brings you back to the present. She's saying something about yesterday; about your father. You start to apologize. You know you can never be sorry enough.
'We shouldn't have made our fight, your fight," you say.
It's not your fault, Lex. You didn't plan this." Martha is more sympathetic than you deserve. "I'm sorry about Jonathan, too. I know you only want good things for Clark, but he's having a hard time with the whole idea."
"I care about Clark," you say. "He's -- you're -- important to me."
"You love him." Martha's voice is soft. You nod, but she doesn't need an answer. She knows. You think maybe she knows everything, but still trusts you to make things right.
"I've made so many mistakes. I *keep* making mistakes." You are as close to tears now as you have ever been, thinking about betrayals, and how they nearly cost you everyone.
"But you learn from them. That's the difference. Lionel … your father … would only be sorry he got caught."
"Maybe I'm not irredeemable." You laugh, and finish your lemonade.
You feel refreshed.
(it's an image of two glasses of fresh lemonade on a table, surrounded by greenery). I don't own Martha, Lex, or even Clark or Jonathan or Lionel. If I did, I'd serve them some nice lemonade and cookies.
Feedback is thirst quenching.
***
There's a trick to making the perfect glass of lemonade; a ratio of fresh squeezed juice to water to sugar. Too much sugar, and the tartness of the lemon is overpowered. You might as well be drinking grape soda, for all the refreshment you'll get. Too little, and you'll feel like every part of you has puckered closed. And don't dare blaspheme by mentioning the name _Country Time_.
Martha Kent's lemonade passes every taste test. Right now, she's pouring you each a glass, and motioning for you to sit down. Your legs are shaking, slightly, as you plant yourself in the care worn wooden kitchen chair, seat smoothed from years of Kent behinds. Condensation runs down the sides of the simple tumblers, mimicking the drops collecting on the back of your neck, and your knees. Martha's hand is trembling, too. It is a wonder she is not in worse shape. You marvel at her resilience, and think she passed it on to her son.
Twenty-four hours ago, you did not expect you would ever be here again. You certainly didn't dare hope. You pray that Martha doesn't know how much of this is your fault, but you're pretty sure that's why you are here. You're grateful the Kents aren't like the Luthors, or there might be arsenic adding a little something extra to your drink.
You stood outside the LuthorCorp high-rise, damning your father, and cursing your own folly. Inside, a "situation" you thought you had under control, was rapidly turning into a disaster, well outside your sphere of influence. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the building. Even as angry as you were at your father, you did not want him physically harmed. Certainly, you had no ill will for Martha. She'd always been a bonus in your relationship with Clark.
You take a sip of the lemonade, and remember the taste of it on Clark's tongue. Tart, and sweet, and altogether surprising. Just like the first time he kissed you.
That was the real surprise. You'd both played the attraction game -- flirting shamelessly, his grins, your eyes. You were just waiting for the right time. You always thought it would be you who made the first actual move.
You never told him how many nights you planned scenarios: *after a night of exciting-yet-suitable-for-teenagers partying in Metropolis; during DVD night at the mansion on a wintery evening (blankets handy, your arm wrapped sleepily around him, a mood inducing movie*). You didn't think Clark would be hard to convince.
Instead, it happened very simply. An impromptu, post-work visit to the farm; you were headachy and prickly from dealing with LexCorp hassles, and in no mood to go home and duel with your father.
Clark was doing homework in the barn. His smile, when he finally stopped reading to look up at you, smoothed away the stress of your day. He patted the sofa seat next to him, offered you the plate of cookies, and the rest of his lemonade, apologizing for having to share the glass. You didn't mind; you would have happily shared anything.
You munched together in companionable near silence, only the noises of your enjoyment breaking the stillness. The cookies must have just come out of the oven. They were still warm, and sticky sweet. You couldn't help feeling a little envy: Clark had a mother who had time to make homemade cookies for her beloved son. Somehow, the fact that you paid a chef to recreate gourmet recipes, didn't seem nearly as appealing.
What *was* appealing was the press of Clark's jean clad thigh, against your linen suit. You could smell him as he leaned in closer, reaching for another cookie. Hay, the cologne you had bought him for his last birthday (more expensive than he knew, made especially for him. You'd thought more about this supposedly casual gift than you had about many a business deal). His scent, mixed with the smells of chocolate and citrus, was heady and altogether too enticing. It was all you could do not to take an obvious sniff.
As it turned out, you didn't have to. Clark moved toward you, aligned his head with yours, and *kissed* you, tongue darting out to lick your lips. So sweet, and so welcome, finally. You were shocked into momentarily immobility, before you were able to kiss him back.
"I didn't have any napkins, either" Clark said. "and you had chocolate on your lips. I know how m you hate to be messy."
"I don't mind anything, with you, Clark," you tell him, as you put the cookie plate out of reach, and pull him to you. He tastes delicious, and you hope his parents stay away. You wonder if this would have happened even earlier, if you had taken Clark out for ribs. Your mind wanders to imagine licking Clark's saucy fingers clean.
Martha's cool hand on your arm brings you back to the present. She's saying something about yesterday; about your father. You start to apologize. You know you can never be sorry enough.
'We shouldn't have made our fight, your fight," you say.
It's not your fault, Lex. You didn't plan this." Martha is more sympathetic than you deserve. "I'm sorry about Jonathan, too. I know you only want good things for Clark, but he's having a hard time with the whole idea."
"I care about Clark," you say. "He's -- you're -- important to me."
"You love him." Martha's voice is soft. You nod, but she doesn't need an answer. She knows. You think maybe she knows everything, but still trusts you to make things right.
"I've made so many mistakes. I *keep* making mistakes." You are as close to tears now as you have ever been, thinking about betrayals, and how they nearly cost you everyone.
"But you learn from them. That's the difference. Lionel … your father … would only be sorry he got caught."
"Maybe I'm not irredeemable." You laugh, and finish your lemonade.
You feel refreshed.