He is barely pausing as she takes his hand. As she smiles, warmly, at him. Knots her fingers through his. And moves closer. Closer. Leans up and (closer) against him. (And he can almost feel her contentment. The joy. The way that he mirrors it, in his own manners. Posture loose. Relaxed. Expression more open, if warmer.) And only takes a moment for him to adapt, before he’s speaking. After a moment. Listening to her question, knowing, but not. (And he’s watching her watch their hands. The slack of her thread, and his.)
“I cannot remember it, precisely,” but he’s flexing his fingers gently. Squeezing her hand a little tighter. He knows the shape of it. Each rise of her knuckles. The lines, drawn into his memory. Held, at times, so closely he could not distinguish where hers began and his ended. Could not disentangle the thread of a lifeline, the memory of pain or hardship sewn into her fingertips. Heavy, and yet – And it is foreign, the obstruction of strings. The soft, spun material. Strong, but thin. And he’s remembering the story of a wise man, after a moment. Listening to the silence that lingers beyond their window. Beneath the occasional whistle of window. Stretching and curving around brick and stone. Never this cold where he can barely remember, once living. Never this desolate. This violent.
But, the apartment is warm. And she is beside him. And there’s something else that filters into the pieces of this unraveling story. Gently prying itself up from the quieter recesses of thought. Coming up, to make itself known. A man and a woman. A stone. And – “It was said to have tied those who were fated, together.” And the words have left before he realizes it. Soft and almost thoughtful, and it takes a moment – but he continues, amending, (still uncertain if that had been the case. If that had been it.) “At least, that is what I believe it happens to do.”
And if it is, he thinks, it is not a bad thing. It is not a terrible virus. And he’s humming, absent, before he (with some moment of debate) gently shifts to be closer. To sit closer. To her warmth. Her life. The comfort there is, here, in her presence. Beside him.
no subject
“I cannot remember it, precisely,” but he’s flexing his fingers gently. Squeezing her hand a little tighter. He knows the shape of it. Each rise of her knuckles. The lines, drawn into his memory. Held, at times, so closely he could not distinguish where hers began and his ended. Could not disentangle the thread of a lifeline, the memory of pain or hardship sewn into her fingertips. Heavy, and yet – And it is foreign, the obstruction of strings. The soft, spun material. Strong, but thin. And he’s remembering the story of a wise man, after a moment. Listening to the silence that lingers beyond their window. Beneath the occasional whistle of window. Stretching and curving around brick and stone. Never this cold where he can barely remember, once living. Never this desolate. This violent.
But, the apartment is warm. And she is beside him. And there’s something else that filters into the pieces of this unraveling story. Gently prying itself up from the quieter recesses of thought. Coming up, to make itself known. A man and a woman. A stone. And –
“It was said to have tied those who were fated, together.” And the words have left before he realizes it. Soft and almost thoughtful, and it takes a moment – but he continues, amending, (still uncertain if that had been the case. If that had been it.) “At least, that is what I believe it happens to do.”
And if it is, he thinks, it is not a bad thing. It is not a terrible virus. And he’s humming, absent, before he (with some moment of debate) gently shifts to be closer. To sit closer. To her warmth. Her life. The comfort there is, here, in her presence. Beside him.