Every morning when he wakes up he makes a list inside his head of the things he wants, like a prayer. It’s a cruel god; the list is short and very focused, almost myopic in nature. He stares at Eden; her eyes are sleepy and closing a bit - she was never really a morning person - and reviews.
What he wants: to be able to kiss her, affectionately and without any pretense, to touch her without thinking about it, to absently run his hand over the back of her neck, right where one of her most prominent scars peeks over the back of her shirt, to whisper good morning into the dark mess of her hair, to untangle her from himself, to bite pinprick bruises into her collarbone and be ashamed and pleased at the same time, to complain about the sweatiness of July mornings, to kiss her with purpose and with intention.
“You’re doing it again,” she says, and he realizes he’s been staring.
Just as he is about to open his mouth Moore stumbles, fingers tangled in his curls and his trousers slung low against his hips and steals her tea, takes a drink. She smiles up at him with a fondness that Frankie does not see directed at him. “Busy today?” she asks, and Moore responds in his thick, indecipherable accent, something muttering and low and Frankie adds that to his list. To be able to take her tea and feel the heat of her mouth. To have her smile at him. To speak in code to her.
They had a code, once. Frankie gave that code up for a brother who is still alive, somewhere, and a death that is adequate punishment for leaving her, he thinks. They had a code when she was his wife and not someone else’s girlfriend, a girl who doesn’t remember the magic she etched onto his skin and onto her soul.
But then Moore leaves, and she looks at Frankie. “Hospital today,” she says, and he nods.
“I’ll walk you there.”
This is what Frankie has: the sunlight on his skin, the air in his lungs, the press of his heartbeat, and the morning walks with a girl who he loves but can’t remember him. He traded the night away for this. He thinks he would do it again to see her, every time.
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timeasmymeasure
Frankie and Eden; something I can never have
Date: 2016-04-17 09:17 pm (UTC)What he wants: to be able to kiss her, affectionately and without any pretense, to touch her without thinking about it, to absently run his hand over the back of her neck, right where one of her most prominent scars peeks over the back of her shirt, to whisper good morning into the dark mess of her hair, to untangle her from himself, to bite pinprick bruises into her collarbone and be ashamed and pleased at the same time, to complain about the sweatiness of July mornings, to kiss her with purpose and with intention.
“You’re doing it again,” she says, and he realizes he’s been staring.
Just as he is about to open his mouth Moore stumbles, fingers tangled in his curls and his trousers slung low against his hips and steals her tea, takes a drink. She smiles up at him with a fondness that Frankie does not see directed at him. “Busy today?” she asks, and Moore responds in his thick, indecipherable accent, something muttering and low and Frankie adds that to his list. To be able to take her tea and feel the heat of her mouth. To have her smile at him. To speak in code to her.
They had a code, once. Frankie gave that code up for a brother who is still alive, somewhere, and a death that is adequate punishment for leaving her, he thinks. They had a code when she was his wife and not someone else’s girlfriend, a girl who doesn’t remember the magic she etched onto his skin and onto her soul.
But then Moore leaves, and she looks at Frankie. “Hospital today,” she says, and he nods.
“I’ll walk you there.”
This is what Frankie has: the sunlight on his skin, the air in his lungs, the press of his heartbeat, and the morning walks with a girl who he loves but can’t remember him. He traded the night away for this. He thinks he would do it again to see her, every time.