II. Wreck of the Day
"Do you think it's arbitrary?" she asks him, the pallid glow of looming darkness ominous in her darkly concentrated, brooding features.
"Is what arbitrary?" he questions, gently prodding what he knows will be one of their many ontological conversations at dusk, when sunlight recedes and they are welcomed by the familiarity of portentous, evocative shadows.
"This," she says, her gaze lifting to meet his. "Do you think we're doing this job for a reason? That we were assigned to it because maybe…"
Her words drift off as the pallid glow of evening fades into the murky silhouette of darkness, both knowing what would be said, but both afraid to speak the words. Her eyes remain transfixed on his for a few moments afterwards, wordlessly challenging him to answer her question, their question; somehow make sense out what she never has. She averts his gaze when he doesn't respond, silently telling him that he's failed; she's still confused, unhappy, and angry; and even he couldn't protect her from that.
"Sometimes I don't think that a 'god' would wish this upon anyone," she begins again, a slight breeze picking up speed around her, blowing uncooperative chestnut strands of hair into her face, and she doesn't bother to push them back. Nothing seems worth bothering for, these days.
"You can't stop fighting," he offers gently, tucking the hair tenderly behind her ear. Her russet-tinged tresses feel like an exotic silk laced around his rough fingers, and it is at this moment that he realizes how truly beautiful she is. "You can't give up."
"That's the problem," she says, her voice cracking at his contact but not bothering to pull away. His face remains inches from hers, and she longer hears two cadenced breathing patterns, but one steady heartbeat. Somehow, in this moment, they have become one person, and she's not sure anymore where he ends and she begins. "I should have given up…today," she says, a bed of tears forming beneath her eyelids, profound anguish burning from her irises to his soul. "I kept going…and where did that get me? Where…where did that get him?"
Her eyes resemble two muddy conduits to heartbreak, a pathway dimly lit but profound in its depths, and he finds himself walking on the edge of it. She's not pulling away, he realizes, and she is almost challenging him to prove her right, pull away so she use it as an excuse for distance in the future. How many times has he accused her of being detached, of being cold and distant? And now, the one moment when he has her, every emotional depth to her soul revealed in a rare moment when emotions and bitter, astringent truths transcend all physical and empirical barriers to form one troubled soul, he's questioning himself. He has experienced this often since he became a detective; everything feels superficial and ephemeral; and he often finds himself asking if it's there, if it's real, if it's not another fantasy. To him, nightmares have become more real than dreams.
"He was a rapist, Olivia," he says, putting his thoughts aside momentarily.
"A life can't be measured in mistakes," she responds, her tone growing louder with urgency, as if she is pleading with him for something concrete, for something she can count on.
"With a mistake like that…" he pauses, his eyes gazing even deeper into hers, as if searching for something that he knows isn't there. "…Yes it can."
He pauses as she withdraws from his fixated gaze, her attempt at contravening the intimate moment that was shared between them; the closest she had ever been to a complete unity of being with another. In her peripheral vision, she still sees the ruminating pellucid radiance of his eyes; his effort to bring her back, his stubborn attempt at verifying that their connection is not over, that he is still waiting for her.
We're so close, Olivia. Just come back.
"Elliot. Don't –"
Mid-sentence, he comes to the realization that their combined angst is simply not sufficient for the connection and comfort that they both irreparably need; sometimes words are only words; and only they can understand the verity of this fact.
He supposes that it's a conglomeration of sheer sexual desire, irrefutable vulnerability, and utter loneliness which causes his lips to come crashing upon hers; and he also supposes that it's pure reason and common sense that causes them both to pull away.
He expects an initial reaction of feministic anger, an accusatory glare of vulnerability that was taken advantage of and a trust that was violated, but instead she deigns him with conciliatory pity. "This won't help," she says ruefully, as if stating a common fact, something that foreshadows previous experience. "It's not that easy."