[ Could still hurt worse. Jake laughs. No teeth, no gleam; the papery-rasp of something this close to catching alight. ]
You think?
[ He can tell she's crying. Hears it in her voice, has memorized the texture of it since that first time he heard it. Told himself he'd never be the reason it would ever crawl back to life. It's hard to tell, whether he's imagining it — whether it's the last time he'll ever be let in enough to hear her sound like this.
Silence stretches. The pads of her fingers skip over the back of his neck, climbs down the front of his shirt. A shudder works all over his frame. He doesn't bother to hide it, to open his mouth to distract from the rest: how easily he turns, almost like he wants to press into her wrist, replace that body-warmed band of gold with his jaw; how he curls his hand around her ankle, simply because that's the nearest part of her he can reach. He touches the spur of bone there the way marble fingers dig into flesh: a little desperately, wanting more than anything to freeze the feeling, this splinter in time. A moment he can't steal away and sink inside.
He expected her to write. Selfishly, recklessly. Mail call and three square meals and ten minutes of sun a day and still nothing, not even a signed photograph, a scented fuck you, a redacted letter. All that careful planning Jake built up within himself, in his life, and he never did send anything first, either. You snooze, you lose. Even kids know that fucking story. Nothing like a jumpsuit and cuffs to make you fall asleep at the wheel.
Except the once. A postcard from San Diego when he was nowhere near it, tourist chic, blue and white WISH YOU WERE HERE! stamped on the front. Scrawled on the back: Give 'em hell, honey. It arrived two days before her 24th. ]
How was your birthday?
[ Before she can pull away, change her mind, leave, his fingers catch at hers. Replacing her hold on the ring with his own hand, brushing his lips across the backs of her knuckles. Idly holding her hand up to eye-level. Like it's all domestic and affectionate curiosity, the way husbands look at their wives, studying the pedicure his pocket paid for. ]
no subject
You think?
[ He can tell she's crying. Hears it in her voice, has memorized the texture of it since that first time he heard it. Told himself he'd never be the reason it would ever crawl back to life. It's hard to tell, whether he's imagining it — whether it's the last time he'll ever be let in enough to hear her sound like this.
Silence stretches. The pads of her fingers skip over the back of his neck, climbs down the front of his shirt. A shudder works all over his frame. He doesn't bother to hide it, to open his mouth to distract from the rest: how easily he turns, almost like he wants to press into her wrist, replace that body-warmed band of gold with his jaw; how he curls his hand around her ankle, simply because that's the nearest part of her he can reach. He touches the spur of bone there the way marble fingers dig into flesh: a little desperately, wanting more than anything to freeze the feeling, this splinter in time. A moment he can't steal away and sink inside.
He expected her to write. Selfishly, recklessly. Mail call and three square meals and ten minutes of sun a day and still nothing, not even a signed photograph, a scented fuck you, a redacted letter. All that careful planning Jake built up within himself, in his life, and he never did send anything first, either. You snooze, you lose. Even kids know that fucking story. Nothing like a jumpsuit and cuffs to make you fall asleep at the wheel.
Except the once. A postcard from San Diego when he was nowhere near it, tourist chic, blue and white WISH YOU WERE HERE! stamped on the front. Scrawled on the back: Give 'em hell, honey. It arrived two days before her 24th. ]
How was your birthday?
[ Before she can pull away, change her mind, leave, his fingers catch at hers. Replacing her hold on the ring with his own hand, brushing his lips across the backs of her knuckles. Idly holding her hand up to eye-level. Like it's all domestic and affectionate curiosity, the way husbands look at their wives, studying the pedicure his pocket paid for. ]
I know I missed it.