OPEN | prompt two | LOVE

[wrens]

prompt two | L O V E And what you can never know from the beginning is how hard or how long you'll love something; how even when it is gone the love will chase you down, loping like dark flame through your blood. — Some lies are love. — Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you've made.

 

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[compartmentalize]

Thoughtful, [ she says, though there's very little sentiment in her tone of voice. (Or if there is, it's so carefully layered with something much more straightforward that one begins to blur the edges of the other.) There's no question that Esther is grateful and perhaps her correction is a way to say thank you; even before Sol was gone and she and Lewis had found themselves bound together in ways that neither of them could have predicted, Esther had always been somewhat tight lipped — keeping things (important things) in reserve until absolutely necessary.

(Not that she thinks Lew doesn't understand already. No, Esther is of the opinion that if anyone in this world has any hope of understanding her, it would be Lewis Truman.)

Turning, she disappears into the dark of the bathroom, the flat swatch of shadow flickering to life as she finally flips on the light overhead. Esther's hands — long, delicately knuckled fingers — curl over the lip of the sink as she leans forward and stares at herself in the mirror, her eyes taking a critical path over the lines of her face.

Eventually: ] I could cut back, if it'd be easier.

[successes]

[ The bathroom light putters to life, and for a long moment, Lewis simply watches the shadows that get cast along the floor of the suite. The light coughs, every so often, the sound a complement to the constant, quiet rattling of the ceiling fan. There's the sound of passing cars and bikes, too, filtering into their rooms through the screen windows. When Esther speaks, her words cut through that white noise, giving a sort of clarity to what would otherwise be a dull buzz. Initially, he just shakes his head, the silence hanging a beat longer before he says anything out loud. (He knows she can't see him, but he can't help the gesture.) ]

Don't worry about it, [ he says, voice only just loud enough to carry to her. The implied: so long as you're alright, it's no problem with me. He's gotten used to running on whatever he's given, anyhow, and this is hardly the worst that either of them has seen.

He lets the silence stretch out, now. He won't ask how she is (he doesn't, most of the time, if they aren't at some sort of social function — it's an unnecessary sort of question between them), nor will he press further. As such, the silence isn't expectant. It's just that — a pocket of quiet, set over the dust of the city. It's been a long day, yes, but he's passed the point of exhaustion at which falling asleep is easy. And besides, he'll take her company, for what small measure he can get it in. ]