1984
Creative Assignment.
He spotted her from far away; it was hard. He couldn't see that old swish of her hips. Intoxicating. Ten years ago, he could have spotted her from the top of the Ministry of Love. Now, her hair was insipid, and her overalls did nothing for her figure. Her freckles were burnt into her shoulders, her cheeks, her hands. They fought for territory. She looked weatherbeaten. He could see the streak of oil on her arm. Black smearing her ghostly frame. He thought her indestructible, once.
She caught him in the corner of her eye. She was turning a corner, on the way to a march. She saw his hunched back, could see him huddling along. He was going so much slower than the crowd. They bustled past him, eager to get to the march, to show their hate. Children pushed against him, and a few times he almost fell. He was completely bald, now. She had noticed that almost straight away. His neck and face were splotchy and red, his cheeks sagging from ill use. She thought him strong, once.
It was only an 'opeless fancy,
Closer they came. Neither would look at the other. Instead, they dragged their eyes over each other's frames. They searched and searched for something in the way they walked, moved their hips, held their heads.
He could remember the circles she made with her hips. No, figure eights. They thrusted from side to side, arousing and incriminating. A well performed act. They did their job perfectly well. Now, there was nothing there.
She could remember how he kept his hands in front of him, always. Clasped them together, and held them in front of his body. They never relented. They were always on guard. Now, they were clutched onto a walking frame, veins bulging out of his tortured hands.
They could both remember the times they shared, the nights they became criminals for a wrongful cause. Both of them remembered, but neither of them would ever reveal.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
It was ages ago, when they had first met. They remembered feeling at home, for a while. They shared their disgraceful secrets, and gave into their improper passions. Could they be called passions? They did not give, they took, on those nights. They burnt themselves into each other's flesh. They did it for themselves. To feel like they were making a difference. Both for other reasons, of course.
But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred
Of course they had thought they were heroes. But they both wanted to help only themselves. He had felt pathetic, and by breaking the rules, he felt stronger. Braver. He was his hero. She was hers. Why join them when you can beat them? Why be orthodox, when you can be unorthodox with another? Why be average, when you can be so much more? Special, not just a pawn. You can be feared when you fear.
They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!
They still don't look at each other. They are heading towards each other now. Only ten feet. Their feet carry them closer and closer, but they still haven't figured out what to do, what to say. Hell, they still haven't acknowledged each other's presence.
6 feet.
He drags his eyes to her waist. Still nothing there. Bony and weak. Someone could snap her in half. Obviously not him.
4 feet.
She focuses on his walking frame. It's not solid enough. Could break apart at any moment. One of the bolts has come loose and is constantly rattling against the metal leg. He really should get it tightened, it's dangerous.
2 feet.
He is an old man, now. Brittle and falling apart from the seams.
She thinks he always was.
She is middle-aged now. Her eyes have sunk back into her face, and her skin is sallow and hanging off her bones. Thick, though. Like leather.
There. They're right next to each other. They can smell the decay, they can hear the silence, they can feel each other's outdated skin. Because they're both feeling exactly the same. They are exactly the same. Dead inside, and dead out.
What happens to you here is forever.
They've passed, now.
2+25.