( it's good instinct — ani's fingers twitch like a runaway pickpocket caught mid-lift, guiltily snared in the act. expected, maybe; jake always saw the job through to the end, wrote his own luck, and ani — they both know she's always run, skipped ahead to the doom of act iii. forever convinced she could see the tragic plot twist coming, convinced she could outpace the heartbreak by leaving first. like she didn't just end up penning it herself, self-fulfilling prophecy.
she forces herself to sit in the uncertainty, this time. hand gently cuffed in his grip, willing prisoner taken in for examination. the shine of her polish is as manicured as ever, pink-gold shine like it costs too much to be sad, not a chip in place. underneath: a nasty habit of picking at her cuticles, scabs almost invisible beneath the lacquer. she stretches her index finger out. grazes whatever inch of his skin is in reach, a ghost's touch. her leg stretches limber, jake's fingertips as an anklet. settles her heel onto his thigh. )
It was a shitshow. FP and I got into it. Big goddamn surprise, right.
( flat. the way it only ever is when she's too tired to do anything but divorce herself from giving a fuck. because it had felt more tombstone than celebration. because he'd missed more than that. she's counted it the way he can count a ledger, the passage of time away in holidays, birthdays, marriages, divorces, orgasms. anniversaries spent in others bed. in waking up, and realizing the man across from you isn't the one you want to see on the pillow. hell, she's probably used as many bodies as they've used hers, an empty fucking blackhole for love. )
Told him to fuck off before the cake even came out. I guess he figured it'd be easier to drink me off his mind than try to fix whatever we fucked up.
( can't blame him, she thinks. it's hard to love a woman when there's always the spirit of some other guy haunting your bed, a third body between the both of you. shitty wife, shitty husband, explosive results. she bends down like a drooping flower, nose pressed to the crown of his head. inhales quietly. he still smells like home. still feels like it, a tune you don't forget. ani never misremembers the songs that matter.
she exhales, the breath tickling his scalp. )
Got to spend it solo, cleaning up the mess he made. Happy fuckin' birthday to me. ( she sniffles, soft, just the once. more reason for fp to resent her — it hadn't mattered. not when she'd had jake's postcard to fold and unfold so many times the ink blurred. ) I kept your postcard. Figured I'd cash it in someday for a real birthday present.
cw: alcoholism
she forces herself to sit in the uncertainty, this time. hand gently cuffed in his grip, willing prisoner taken in for examination. the shine of her polish is as manicured as ever, pink-gold shine like it costs too much to be sad, not a chip in place. underneath: a nasty habit of picking at her cuticles, scabs almost invisible beneath the lacquer. she stretches her index finger out. grazes whatever inch of his skin is in reach, a ghost's touch. her leg stretches limber, jake's fingertips as an anklet. settles her heel onto his thigh. )
It was a shitshow. FP and I got into it. Big goddamn surprise, right.
( flat. the way it only ever is when she's too tired to do anything but divorce herself from giving a fuck. because it had felt more tombstone than celebration. because he'd missed more than that. she's counted it the way he can count a ledger, the passage of time away in holidays, birthdays, marriages, divorces, orgasms. anniversaries spent in others bed. in waking up, and realizing the man across from you isn't the one you want to see on the pillow. hell, she's probably used as many bodies as they've used hers, an empty fucking blackhole for love. )
Told him to fuck off before the cake even came out. I guess he figured it'd be easier to drink me off his mind than try to fix whatever we fucked up.
( can't blame him, she thinks. it's hard to love a woman when there's always the spirit of some other guy haunting your bed, a third body between the both of you. shitty wife, shitty husband, explosive results. she bends down like a drooping flower, nose pressed to the crown of his head. inhales quietly. he still smells like home. still feels like it, a tune you don't forget. ani never misremembers the songs that matter.
she exhales, the breath tickling his scalp. )
Got to spend it solo, cleaning up the mess he made. Happy fuckin' birthday to me. ( she sniffles, soft, just the once. more reason for fp to resent her — it hadn't mattered. not when she'd had jake's postcard to fold and unfold so many times the ink blurred. ) I kept your postcard. Figured I'd cash it in someday for a real birthday present.