[ A low hum, a noise that rumbles inside the barrel of his chest. Lightly, ]
Think I like him the least.
[ As if Jake's making passing commentary on something else entirely. Clothes. Shoes. One of many shades of a dress, a flight of fancy, and not the next man to hold her hand in public. Whatever he feels looking at candid photographs from four timezones away, the glossy sheen to her mouth seen in an interview on a tiny, staticky screen, shared rec space with other men just like him: it's never been jealousy. Too sharp and aching and pointed by half, to be something as common as envy.
Shaped like a comfort, his palm runs up her shin. (You didn't deserve that.) Mindless reflex, the way bodies jolt at alarm, the way green lights relax some pit in the stomach. Up to her knee and down again to her ankle, slow and meandering. He studies her nailbeds like there's something to be gleaned there, the memory of a habit knocking against his teeth. Unchanged, still. Anora Mikheeva's little splinters of self destruction. Maybe marrying him was just one of the first.
He squeezes her fingers in his. Her breath runs warm behind him. There's a reason it can't be like this all the time, pink and gold and warm and tired, a coat of color over the scabs they left behind in each other. He lets her hand go. ]
A real birthday present. [ And still, a part of him tethers. Will, always, until gravedirt. His head tips back to look at her, the round of his skull resting lightly against the plush softness of one of her thighs. The pinpricks of stubble scratching as his eyes alight, a familiar look settling back into his shoulders. Deftness. The start of a roll of the dice. She kept his postcard. ]
What, a new car? White picket fence?
[ Teasing. Gently testing the balance and weight, even though there's something almost real in there, too. If they were both different people. If history held a little less sway. ]
no subject
Think I like him the least.
[ As if Jake's making passing commentary on something else entirely. Clothes. Shoes. One of many shades of a dress, a flight of fancy, and not the next man to hold her hand in public. Whatever he feels looking at candid photographs from four timezones away, the glossy sheen to her mouth seen in an interview on a tiny, staticky screen, shared rec space with other men just like him: it's never been jealousy. Too sharp and aching and pointed by half, to be something as common as envy.
Shaped like a comfort, his palm runs up her shin. (You didn't deserve that.) Mindless reflex, the way bodies jolt at alarm, the way green lights relax some pit in the stomach. Up to her knee and down again to her ankle, slow and meandering. He studies her nailbeds like there's something to be gleaned there, the memory of a habit knocking against his teeth. Unchanged, still. Anora Mikheeva's little splinters of self destruction. Maybe marrying him was just one of the first.
He squeezes her fingers in his. Her breath runs warm behind him. There's a reason it can't be like this all the time, pink and gold and warm and tired, a coat of color over the scabs they left behind in each other. He lets her hand go. ]
A real birthday present. [ And still, a part of him tethers. Will, always, until gravedirt. His head tips back to look at her, the round of his skull resting lightly against the plush softness of one of her thighs. The pinpricks of stubble scratching as his eyes alight, a familiar look settling back into his shoulders. Deftness. The start of a roll of the dice. She kept his postcard. ]
What, a new car? White picket fence?
[ Teasing. Gently testing the balance and weight, even though there's something almost real in there, too. If they were both different people. If history held a little less sway. ]