( not a forgery, this time, but the real one-of-a-kind thing: ani laughs. not the pretty, soft-lipped kind she polishes for the camera. that's all closed mouth and locked teeth, keeping it to herself. they can have the headlines, the heartbreak, but not this. never this. not the sound of her sun-drenched, bursting happiness. the kind that makes her squint, nose-crinkled, against its brightness. wide open spaces, first glimpse of a blinding sky, stepping out of a prison cell to smell salt and sky. dizzy with new freedom, fucked up with hope.
the shadows around her eyes burn away. in an instant, she looks younger. not the ghost of someone else. not quite a replication of who she used to be. close enough to be a rendition of a woman bet her panties against a cartier watch in monte carlo when he was just a stranger still, a wife who laughed and ran laps around hotel room furniture to make him catch her, a bride hearing i do at a quiet altar.
because of course he says it like it's another set of vows, like it's another ring sparkling in a box. in quick succession, she thinks: fuck, she wants to believe him again. fuck, maybe she already does. fuck, she's so completely fucked. she swats at his chest, a gentle shove, to keep from saying something desperate and stupid like i missed you every fucking day. )
God. ( she jingles out another laugh, breathier. ) I fucking hate you. You still say the dumbest shit.
( it sounds, suspiciously, like it translates to: god, i fucking love you. ani never was good at that language, less natural than even her bumpy french. there's room, now, for her to slide down from the chaise — settle comfortably into his lap. a familiar saddle. a roll of her eyes, all bravado, all long-suffering over having to humor him: right before it cracks into something softer, like a splinter catching on satin. )
I think we've gotta fight like hell to get it right. Don't let me tap out when it gets too hard. And you? Don't pull your Houdini bullshit. You're stickin' with me.
( she seals it with a kiss, if it can be called that, to his forehead. a promise, an i do, an you may kiss the bride conclusion to a vow. then, pirouetting away from her own nakedness, still restless when the truth gets too raw: )
So let's see if the ride's worth the trouble, cowboy. ( she lifts the body-warmed band to her mouth, lets it brush over her lip. exhales, the way he taught her to blow on dice — for good luck, baby. make the next one count. as mean as it is sweet, a little dare dangled between them: ) Put your fuckin' ring on.
no subject
the shadows around her eyes burn away. in an instant, she looks younger. not the ghost of someone else. not quite a replication of who she used to be. close enough to be a rendition of a woman bet her panties against a cartier watch in monte carlo when he was just a stranger still, a wife who laughed and ran laps around hotel room furniture to make him catch her, a bride hearing i do at a quiet altar.
because of course he says it like it's another set of vows, like it's another ring sparkling in a box. in quick succession, she thinks: fuck, she wants to believe him again. fuck, maybe she already does. fuck, she's so completely fucked. she swats at his chest, a gentle shove, to keep from saying something desperate and stupid like i missed you every fucking day. )
God. ( she jingles out another laugh, breathier. ) I fucking hate you. You still say the dumbest shit.
( it sounds, suspiciously, like it translates to: god, i fucking love you. ani never was good at that language, less natural than even her bumpy french. there's room, now, for her to slide down from the chaise — settle comfortably into his lap. a familiar saddle. a roll of her eyes, all bravado, all long-suffering over having to humor him: right before it cracks into something softer, like a splinter catching on satin. )
I think we've gotta fight like hell to get it right. Don't let me tap out when it gets too hard. And you? Don't pull your Houdini bullshit. You're stickin' with me.
( she seals it with a kiss, if it can be called that, to his forehead. a promise, an i do, an you may kiss the bride conclusion to a vow. then, pirouetting away from her own nakedness, still restless when the truth gets too raw: )
So let's see if the ride's worth the trouble, cowboy. ( she lifts the body-warmed band to her mouth, lets it brush over her lip. exhales, the way he taught her to blow on dice — for good luck, baby. make the next one count. as mean as it is sweet, a little dare dangled between them: ) Put your fuckin' ring on.