She puts the disc in the machine and waits until the movie starts playing on its own, not even bothering using the remote, slumped on the couch right next to her. Yesterday was Barbra Streisand. Today it's Judy Garland. Tomorrow will be Janet Gaynor's turn, and then the rotation will start all over again, until she gets stuck on some other broken hearts movie. She's thinking maybe… 'Great expectations'. She is Ms. Dinsmoor. Ain't love grand?
So this is how her life is going to be like, from now on.
She is back to work, trying her best, and doing pretty well. She is wearing her nice clothes, putting on her good make-up, and when she remembers, she's even using perfume. She manages to smile and nod when talking to people, on special occasions she even succeeds in paying attention. Her appetite is not back yet, but she's eating again, mostly out of habit. Maybe even a little more than she used to, fruitlessly trying to distract herself from her own thoughts.
Rory is busy with school and her new boyfriend, Sookie is busy with Davy and being pregnant, Michel is busy… well, Michel is busy being Michel, and she's got her movies and her take-outs to keep her company. Movies and take-outs and that constant feeling that has been escorting her for almost a month now, and she finds it hard to believe it'll ever go away. She doesn't mind. In her own perverted way, she grew quite fond of that feeling, of that pain, of that empty weight she carries around with her wherever she goes. This is her reminder, she thinks. Her souvenir: of a life she could have had, of a man she would have married, of a feeling so great she never even believed she could ever feel so intensely. Of twins that will never be born.
She misses him. She misses him terribly. She almost can't stand it. From time to time, she contemplates the option of going to him, take a seat at the counter, introduce herself as Sissy, and start all over. And then what?
She would come to the diner every day, drink her coffee, have a doughnut, exchange sarcastic banter and pretend all the time that it was all fine, that this is how it was supposed to be, that she didn't love him and that her heart wasn't broken.
She would watch how he meets someone new, sweet and kind and beautiful, a healthy eater, someone without meddling parents or kids from previous relationship or exes that won't leave you alone… Someone perfect. And he'll fall in love with her, marry her, and the diner would be filled with little flannel clad, backwards baseball cap wearing children, that weren't hers.
He wouldn't do that, would he?
Can one mistake, one night, one month, erase eight years worth of love?
She refused to believe that.
She would watch, then, as he's not meeting anyone, not finding someone new, not loving someone else, and they would be left to live in their 'Almost Land', only this time instead of living in 'Someday City' they would be stuck in 'Too-lateville'. She would look at him, he would look at her, they'd both feel it, and they would both do nothing and be stupid, because that is what they do best.
Maybe in another eight years.
She is staring blankly at the screen, lost in thought, only realizing she missed half the movie when Judy starts to sing. In her mind, she is saying 'Amen to that, sister', but her mouth won't move.
Someone is knocking on the door, and she lets out a silent sigh and takes a big breath before she gets up, putting on that brave 'I'm fine' face she's been keeping in reach in the last few weeks. She rubs her numb face, trying to look semi-alive, and opens the door.
Before her mind even gets to process who it is, register that desperate look on his face, he is grabbing her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her, devouring her.
She can't breath.
Her arms jump up eagerly, surrounding his neck, keeping her from falling backwards, but once she's sure she's still standing, it's not enough, and she adjusts her position to hold him tighter, always tighter, he couldn't be close enough.
As his palm roams in circles on her lower back, finally finding its place at her waist, a voice in the back of her mind reminds her that this would be a good time to close the door.
Her arms shoot up around him again, before the door is even completely shut.
She wants to bury her face inside him, drunk on sensation. The scratch of his stubble on her cheek and on her forehead, the smell of oil and burnt food from his cloths, his hands, his big, strong, warm hands, holding her, awakening her, reassuring her. The material of his jacket under her trembling hand.
She kisses him frantically, wherever she can reach, not stopping for a second, as if afraid that if she slows down, he might disappear again, and she can't let that happen, and she has to let him know-- on his lips, on his chin, on his neck, on his cheek, on his nose, on his brow.
Soon enough she is completely out of breath, and she has to back away. She looks at him through what she now realizes are tears-- the dam has been broken, and all the feelings she had kept so carefully inside for weeks now, come gushing out, outside her control.
He reaches his arm to her, looking lost, but before he gets to say anything she is beside him, cupping his face, carefully but forcefully, breathing "don't".
She tries to hold her self together long enough to let it out, and her grip on his face tightens even more, as if it was his face that was keeping her from falling down.
"Don't you ever," she's half yelling, "ever, ever do this to me again!" she cries and wraps herself around him again.
"Never" he whispers into her hair.
"Ever." She mumbles into his shoulder, allowing her body to relax in his embrace, as the tears continue streaming down her face, her forehead pressing into the soft, worn-out fabric.
"Just because I love you doesn't mean I won't kill you!" still in his arms, she allows herself to bury her face in his neck and hit his chest simultaneously.
"Duly noted" he softly chuckles, his voice slightly breaking.
In the background, Judy Garland finished her song. Janet Gaynor be dammed.