In Between
Rated: T
Summary: It's the waiting that bothers her the most.
It's this particular moment of the night I despise most. These few lonely hours of gray before morning breaks with glorious tincture. It's this vague in between state and the concurrent waiting that exasperate me. I have never been endowed with patience. After all, what would you expect from a person who can go from a leggy blond, to a vermillion temptress and end at a drab brunette with a scrunching of the face and a few minutes to spare.
I turn to grab the limp and flat pillow from behind my head, and try to revive the lost fluff. It's too hot, yet too cold in the bedroom and my body can't make up its' mind. Nothing seems to carry color or substance at this hour. There is a lacking of vermillion patches of flowers and vivid cerulean skies. Nothing. Listless. Empty. Yes, empty. It is how I currently feel, a shell of a being with no purpose or meaning. I feel cold now and a bit desolate.
I gave up the pretense of changing, or should I say attempting to change my color earlier this evening. Earlier on when he was supposed to return. He's late, and now the harlequin of my person has drained. A colorless bleed out.
I realize there are only so many positions a body can be pretzeled into on this large oak bed. None of them feel right. There's an indentation in the mattress to my left. As I run my fingers over it, I imagine your lean form fitted into it and mine to yours.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Where is he? Did I say or do something wrong? No. Stop. No use panicking yet. I look into the darkness of the room and reach the number 237 with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Inadequacy permeates my thinking.
Self-doubt? Why? It's because we're in between now. And I think too much.
The door cracks open, saffron-yellow light leaking in.
"Nymphandora?" he asks quietly into the room. He knows I wait up for him always, yet each time he asks. Very polite. Considerate.
"It's ok Remus, I'm awake." I reply, tiredness finally hitting me.
He lights a candle to remove his shirt and pants. The soft glow against the wall illuminates him. I can't help but let a wry smile scape my lips. I let my eyes trace patterns of scars along the curves of his muscular body. Give me time, I will memorize every one.
There are more ashen hairs scattered about his head and beard with new wrinkles at the corners of his deep chocolate eyes. I notice these little things. He gives me a road weary smile before tucking himself behind me and molding my form to his. Perfect fit. Then I realize the meaning of gray. Gray after all is just another color to love.