011. Odds and Ends

He has a collection of her memories stored haphazardly in his life, snapshots of uninhibited laughter, genuine smiles, flirty words. But it's been too long; they're blurry around the edges, unfocused in the background, lopped off where it counts.

The only descript item that remains is a remembrance of trust, of unspoken love.

He'll never have anything else for his compilation, and that hurts, more than he'll admit. If she knows, she's acting like it doesn't faze her.

That's okay, though.

Miscellany is his forte; he amasses fragments of their past in odd places as a means to an end.

012. Tea

There are four major types of tea: white (her pale skin brushes against his), green (her piercing eyes are wide, pupils dilated), oolong (she makes a throaty 'ooo' sound, drags it out long), black (she's approaching the edge, and at the end of the tunnel, there's darkness).

But nothing is ever that simple, and when he delves into a flowchart of teas, he realizes that there are a billion and one infusions possible, and he wonders where chamomile, Earl Grey, Orange pekoe fit into this equation.

Besides, when he stands too close, he gets a nice gulp of iced tea.

013. Twisted

Each time he says something wildly inappropriate, does something to further damage their precariously life-supported relationship, she feels a knife twisting deeper into her gut.

But she's too proud to beg him to stop, too jaded to believe he'll listen, too bitter to prevent herself from twisting a few strands of blond hair through her fingers when he's taking a peek.

He mutters a quick curse under his breath, looks away sharply. He doesn't remember the last time he took so many cold fucking showers in his life.

It's twisted, but it's routine, and isn't predictability what she's always wanted?

014. Echo

Reverberating sound has the peculiar ability to cut off half the phrase, altering the intended meaning:

"Take another look at your crime scene photos; the clothes have fallen off the top shelf." Her tone is disapproving, but he's too busy reeling from her words.

In his head, he pictures giving her a little striptease.

"Do you do that just to piss me off?" She's angry; he thinks it means she'll be rough.

That night, he waits for her to show up in a skimpy little number, but she doesn't.

Wishful thinking and selective hearing have the same effect as echoes.

015. Soothe

They've become sadists, masochists; addicted to inflicting and receiving pain. Anything can set her off, and he's past the point of trying to please her.

But it's in his nature, and he hates feeling guilty (still a little Catholic boy), so sometimes, he'll apologize quietly, pull her into an awkward but soothing half-hug, and she'll sigh, relent, draw a quick shape on his shirt with her fingertip before pulling away.

For the rest of the day, there's no more button-pushing, no snappy retorts, and he thinks he can learn to enjoy the peace.

But tomorrow, she brings the heavy artillery.