Disclaimer: I do not own Reno. Or Tifa. They are property of Squenix in all of its super-awesome glory.
Sakura-Angel: Written in fifteen minutes. Also written with different people in mind, but just as applicable to our favourite martial artist and redhead. Released as an experiment (eyebrows).
I think of us in our domesticity. Us, brewing our morning coffee, your french vanilla and my black. Us, flicking through late-night tv shows, a bowl of popcorn in your lap and you in mine. Us, sauntering down the grocery aisles, shivering in the meat section.
We're walking back to the car and I pull out the six-inch reciept from beneath the green bananas. You never buy them yellow, I never know why.
You settle in the driver's seat, adjusting the seat position, fidgeting with the rearview.
I'm coming around, having just dumped the chicken in the trunk and slammed the hood. I peer at the reciept closer, opening the passenger's door and sliding in, if I may say so, smoothly. My hair gets in my eye. You brush it aside for me, hand dropping and trailing to my pocket. You search for the car keys.
I scan the things you bought. Did that shit cashier overcharge you? I voice this. "I think you got suckered."
You've found them, jangling them happily as they emerge from my pocket between your nails lacquered with clear polish as if to say, oh, what do we have here.
"I know I did," you say.
"Why did you let that happen?" I ask.
"They need more money. Why not? It's just a dollar or two." You're smiling, eyes closed.
You're too nice. I say nothing, and drop the reciept in my lap as you turn the engine over, making it purr, and back out of our parking space.
Our, our, our. Everything is ours.
I prop my head against my arm, which is propped against the window. I let out an involuntary sigh, and turn my head to look at you.
You, you, you. Everything is you.