Spring Cleaning
When Grant stepped through the door after a long day filled with frustrating leads that led nowhere, he found the room he shared with Skye in complete disarray. This, in itself, wasn't that surprising—he loved Skye more than anything, but she wasn't the tidiest person—, but his one and only standing in front of the open closet, most of her body obscured by the its doors, and periodically throwing pieces of clothing over her shoulder that landed on the ever-growing pile on the bed, was a bit more unexpected.
"What are you doing?" he blurted out, his mouth widening into a smile as he walked over to the armchair in the corner and threw his jacket over the its back.
"Oh, hi, babe!" Skye barely broke rhythm, just leaned back a bit to look at him over the edge of the closet door and flashed him a quick smile as she swept an errant lock of hair from her eyes that had escaped from the haphazard bun on the top of her head. "I'm being sensible," she said, already turning back towards the closet.
"Sensible?" he repeated with a low, incredulous chuckle as he sat down in the chair and started to unlace his boots.
"Yep," she said, the 'p' popping like an overblown chewing gum. "I'm getting rid of all the clothes I'm not wearing anymore. Like, look…" Turning towards him, she held up a shirt for him to see. "This one has a bloodstain I hoped would come out, but of course it didn't, so… out. And this…" She dropped the shirt on the pile, then lifted an already discarded pair of jeans. "…This has a hole on the crotch—don't ask—, and I meant to mend it, but it'd still look ugh, so this one is out too." She let it fall back, then, explanation done, she turned to the closet once again.
Amused by her antics, Grant shook his head as he slipped his shoes under the chair, then stood up and stepped to the bed to take a better look at her "discard" pile. Most of it really deserved to be thrown out—there were T-shirts with holes in them, frayed and faded sweaters, pants with old stains that no washing powder would take out, no matter what the ads promised. But then his gaze fell on a flash a purple—on a slightly faded Henley, a crocheted inlay running down its sleeves. On a very familiar Henley. He inhaled sharply.
"You can't throw this out," he declared, fishing the shirt out of the pile.
Skye stopped, turning towards him, her eyebrows arched in question. "What?" She took a glance at the piece of clothing in his hand. "Of course I can. It's old, and I haven't worn it in…"
"You can't," he cut in, making her blink in confusion.
"Why?"
"Because…" His gaze dropped to the shirt for a moment before he looked up at her again. "Because it brings out your eyes?" He didn't mean it to sound like a question, but it still ended up that way.
The corner of Skye's mouth twitched. "You wanna go again?"
"Because…" He let out a long sigh, then, almost shy, he said, "because you wore this when we first met."
Skye's expression softened right away. "Oh," she breathed, blinking and her lips parting slightly as she reached for the shirt; he let her take it. "I guess I did," she said, caressing the material with her thumbs, gazing at the purple cotton, before raising her gaze to look into his eyes again. "You really remember what I was wearing that day?"
He didn't say a thing, only offered her a little shrug, as if he was trying to tell her that of course he remembered—of that, and many, many other small, otherwise insignificant things that were only momentous to him because they involved her. Tilting her head sideways, she smiled at him.
"Yeah, you're right," she said, reaching for an empty hanger, "I can't throw this out." She slipped the shirt on the hanger and carefully placed it back in the closet, then reached for the next thing she wanted to throw out. Only her hand stilled mid-movement, then her whole body froze, as if something had suddenly dawned upon her. She turned towards him, menacingly slow. "You remember that shirt because you were staring at my boobs."
Grant swallowed nervously. "In my defense, you were pushing…" he started as he walked around the bed towards her, his hands raised in defense.
"You remember because you were staring at my boobs!" she laughed, throwing a balled up shirt at him, which he easily deflected.
"And," he said, slipping his arms around her waist amidst her laughter, "because it brings out your eyes."
