1
Title: Seasons
rating:pg:13
Summary: Women are like the seasons, always changing and never still. A 4 part series of vignettes where Ryan thinks about some of the women in his life. Second person narrative
A.N. written during early season 2, so it's kind of dated.
chapter two: Autumn
Marissa is like the leaves in fall. Brittle, fragile, fading, and when the rain comes limp and clinging. Nothing ever went the way she wanted. Never ever turned out the way she had planned. Like you and her.
She was like the hot chocolate Theresa's mom would fix you when you came to their house. It would look so good and rich, and you couldn't wait to feel it, warm and smooth, going down your throat. She would always remind you to blow on it first, but you never could wait, and you would burn your tongue on the cheap, watered down chocolate. A bitter taste would be left in your mouth for days.
She never means to hurt you, Never means to disappoint, take you for granted, but somehow she always manages to do just that. Time after time you have tried to get out of this farce of a relationship, but you always end up the white knight.
You come to her house one night. She is living with her dad and he is out at the bar. You are lonely, and she is welcoming. You lay on her bed and make out. You put your hand underneath her shirt and rub it down her back. You can feel every rib prominently through her skin, and you push your hand hurriedly down to her jean clad waist.
Her mouth tastes like sour liquor and stale cigarettes, and you can't help but remember your mother carried the same scent. You pull away to breathe, and see the tears. Big fat droplets of clear moisture dripping from the corners of her eyes. You quickly pull away, scared you had done something wrong. Her face is white, and pulled taught over her cheekbones.
She runs into the kitchen, and you trail behind her. You watch as she swallows an unidentifiable pill and washes it down with a handful of water from the kitchen sink. She pulls her hair back from her neck, and you see her long spindly fingers.
She turns and looks at you. Her eyes pleading.
"What's wrong with me?" she desperately asks.
You don't answer. You pick up your coat and leave. You don't speak of it.
Marissa is your fall.