**퍼엉
**christopher poindexter*
midsummer and supersymmetry
day 14
Hadron collider and MK don't really belong together; like lemon in white tea and cinnamon in raspberry tea; suede ankle booties in the rain and stilettos in gravel; Stella Artois and then hazelnut coffee –all these, Rukia knows; she knows and what and what agree and don't agree.
But Stella and midsummer rain do agree. Oversized sweatshirts and his oversized ruffled bed do agree as well. Rukia –bundled in brown oversized sweatshirt- rolls over his bed side to side to side, lazily watching the midsummer rain pound against his windows covering one side from wall to ceiling. In between scorching days of summer heat, the lumps of gray clouds are as if waving a pleasant hello, and Rukia welcomes them like a rain-lover would.
(he lives in an apartment too high and close to the sky; at night time, he's most alive and the world is discernible. At morning, it's the brightest thing possible and she's not very fond of the sunlight streaming through the glass. He, however, appreciates the speed of light)
For two weeks, she had been quiet and he had been kind. He understands silence, the words between closed lips and actions in the spaces between the fingers: pot of brewed coffee with vanilla and cream; blanket when she's sleeping; a greasy large burger when she feels like not eating; aired laundry; the large armrest for her in the open air gallery of his sky-high apartment. He leaves her be.
Marriage is like learning how to **count infinity with four hands*. Ichigo is not big on the romantic side, no flowers or chocolates, it's like she hadn't marry at all and she's fine with it; she never really expected any form of romanticism. What she wants, after all, is just companionship. There is no need to count to infinity using four hands.
And what do physicists know? Love is like an eternally expanding unsolvable algorithm with no patterns, therefore, inconclusive. And what do people like her know? Love is a carry-on luggage that can be dropped off anytime. Like Hadron collider and MK; like lemon in white tea and cinnamon in raspberry tea; like suede ankle booties in the rain and stilettos in gravel, he and she don't really belong.
Her (his) bed is warm and huge and empty and sometime between the slow trickle of the rain and she slowly slipping into sleep: half-dreaming and half-drunk and half-awake, she feels an added pressure on her bed and one warm large hand enclosing on her own tiny hand.