Waking to a countenance of serenity near him, eyes still closed in a glorious sleep, the young man felt a gentle smile come upon his face. There had never been a day in his life as peaceful, as lovely as the one they had spent. And so it seemed to continue.
The two awakened to their impressively quiet street in the town of their eternal youth. The worst was an icy sidewalk pressed with a sudden warm day. Now their troubles seemed gentle streams, draining away. Their morning was filled with the scent of coffee and the sound of laughter. Even when silence came upon them, they experienced a comfort that hadn't seemed possible for years.
And their weekend lasted in such a way, and neither longed for its conclusion. But as the work week began, they still felt the warmth of the other; both came home for the other, with their same kind words. Any quarrels were insignificant, never threatening; if ever so, the threat of a heart's harm was quelled by their final understandings.
Each night they spent together, even if the other stayed awake in work for hours longer. His presence was enough for her. Her presence, enough for him.
So onward they proceeded with their days, never truly away...
The near-man stood outside the door. He merely had the gift he'd forgotten to send. There wasn't an excuse for his actual presence; he could have still used the mail. He could have remained at home as usual, asserted further his role as Dutiful Son.
Yet he stood at the door, recycled cardboard box in hand. There was not a card attached.
"Oh, hello Damir! I wasn't expecting you for a while..." the woman answered. Her light blue eyes seemed to show a surprise and joy he had never seen before. The band around her finger glittered in the midday sun.
"Sorry," he replied, timidly, trying desperately to match her excited expression. "I brought you a gift..."
"Damir, thank you," she replied.
"I didn't look at the registry or anything, so..."
"That's totally fine, I'm sure..."
"You can open now if you want, I mean_"
"I... I should wait for John, probably..."
"Yeah. Probably."
They paused.
"Do you want to come in?"
The invitation evoked honest surprise in the young man. He had expected to hand off the gift and leave, though the next bus would not be for hours. The wait had become his routine, however, for nearly every occasion. He felt the usual sticking and piercing, and strange aching, of the typical effort of moving about for longer than an hour.
"Sure," he replied, and so stepped inside.
The house contained dark, well-maintained wooden floors, a mostly open floorplan, furnished with a flawless combination of antique and modern pieces, the glass-topped coffee table expertly littered with magazines for science, ecological friendliness, vegetarian recipes, occasionally juxtaposed with neo-literary novels with absurd titles, along with the addition of the box. The place seemed a showroom, with the small kitchen's divider from living room being a movable bar-like island.
"Do you want anything?" she said. "John and I are on this diet right now for his next race, so we're trying to keep away from alcohol for a while..."
"No, I'm fine. Thanks for the offer though."
He was quick to respond in this instance, when he was often not.
"Do you want some water? I'll just pour a couple of glasses of water."
The young woman had never been so chatty, at least in his experience. He watched as she pulled out a filter-pitcher from the narrow and minimally stocked refrigerator, taking two abnormally ornate glasses denoting a visit to the East Coast, from a cupboard just above the sink and poured each to the same level. The young man finally sat down on a sofa which could only either be over fifty years old or purchased new the week before, just as the second homeowner took a seat next to him, taking two coasters from the far corner of the coffee table to set their glasses upon. He reached into an inside coat pocket, almost involuntarily, feeling the small canister of pain-sparing medication, in an attempt to settle his tensing nerves. It was there, as it typically was.
"How have you been?" the woman began, after a sip of water, and a gaze at an empty wall. A laptop sat upon a desk where most would put their television, envelopes of internet-rented DVD's beside it. An ancient, restored shelf held more books and uncommon films, beside the desk.
He wanted to be honest. He drank the filtered tap water, and kept drinking it, as if it were something else. The curtains, hand-sewn, perhaps? were held wide open.
"I don't know," he replied, borderlining on flippant, shrugging. He watched as the woman stared ahead, then into her glass.
"Damir, if you're not willing to have a convers_"
"Amira, we never 'small-talk'. Not since the first day we met."
"It's been a long time since the_"
"Has it now?" he said, his voice rising.
She stood, taking their glasses back placing them in the sink, before opening a locked cabinet below the sink. She pulled out a dark bottle, with a foreign label, and pulled out a stout snifter, pouring a caramel liquuid to a fourth, and took a sip, almost wincing in its recent unfamiliarity.
"That's some real commitment you have there, Amira," he muttered under his breath.
"Look, you can leave, you can get out of here right now, if you just keep_"
"Alright, alright... I'm sorry..."
"God," she said, exasperated.
She drank more, but slower than the first sip. He approached the kitchen, standing beside the island with its near empty glass and dark foreign bottle. The woman glared at him for a moment, before sighing, and turning toward the cupboard with its glasses.
"You sure you should be drinking? Don't you... don't you need to drive home?" she said, as she pulled out a glass identical to hers.
He took a moment before replying, before deciding to bite his tongue. Perhaps something of value could come to this "conversation".
"No, no it should be fine. I took the bus."
"Are you sure? No interference with medications or anything, or..." she said, as she refilled hers and inadvertently paused at his.
"I promise you, it is fine, Amira."
As soon as she set down the bottle, the two seemed to race to drink, but wound up synchronized with their modest sips.
"You took the bus four hours from_" the woman began.
"Yeah."
"The nearest bus stop is five miles away."
"Your point?"
"Nothing."
"Anyway. What were we talking about?"
"How... how are you doing?"
He paused to stare at the liquid in his glass, darker and richer than the thin, vaguely cucumber-flavored water he had forced down his throat earlier.
"You first," he urged his old friend.
"I've been doing well," she began, attempting to mask her deliberation, the calculations conducted in her head as to what aspects of marital bliss she felt comfortable with exposing.
"You have a nice house," he noted superfluously.
"Thanks."
They each drank, at once.
"John's been doing well at work. I'm getting... close to finishing up my degree."
She had double-majored in Botany and Environmental Science. Completing her master's degree in Environmental Science, he recalled.
"Great."
"Mhmm."
She poured them each more, as they had drank between speaking. They were silent for a few moments, each within his and her own mind. Considering attacks and peacemaking plans and wondering anxiously and painfully about the other's life and the utter dangers of treading such fragile ground.
Damir stared at the perfect floor, just worn enough to prove lived upon, but just clean enough to seem untouched.
"How... how is everything with you and John?" he began, feeling a new stabbing sensation with the words slipping from his mouth. And the anticipation of its answer.
He watched her light up again, as she had at the door, without her endearing surprise.
"We're doing very well. He's... he's really passionate about what he does, Damir. I'm... I'm so proud of him. To be with him. I mean, I love him... I've never known someone so deeply passionate about what they care about. And he's always so honest. And yet so optimistic. I... I honestly think he could save the world, at least some of it..."
The young man nodded at whatever moments deemed appropriate, as he filled his glass the second time.
"I'm... happy for you," he finally said, feeling that stabbing turn into twisting. It wasn't a knife, but a thousand shards of glass, piercing his gut, his chest.
The wife obliged the man with her response.
"That... that means a lot, Damir. Thank you."
The two awakened to their impressively quiet street in the town of their eternal youth. The worst was an icy sidewalk pressed with a sudden warm day. Now their troubles seemed gentle streams, draining away. Their morning was filled with the scent of coffee and the sound of laughter. Even when silence came upon them, they experienced a comfort that hadn't seemed possible for years.
And their weekend lasted in such a way, and neither longed for its conclusion. But as the work week began, they still felt the warmth of the other; both came home for the other, with their same kind words. Any quarrels were insignificant, never threatening; if ever so, the threat of a heart's harm was quelled by their final understandings.
Each night they spent together, even if the other stayed awake in work for hours longer. His presence was enough for her. Her presence, enough for him.
So onward they proceeded with their days, never truly away...
The near-man stood outside the door. He merely had the gift he'd forgotten to send. There wasn't an excuse for his actual presence; he could have still used the mail. He could have remained at home as usual, asserted further his role as Dutiful Son.
Yet he stood at the door, recycled cardboard box in hand. There was not a card attached.
"Oh, hello Damir! I wasn't expecting you for a while..." the woman answered. Her light blue eyes seemed to show a surprise and joy he had never seen before. The band around her finger glittered in the midday sun.
"Sorry," he replied, timidly, trying desperately to match her excited expression. "I brought you a gift..."
"Damir, thank you," she replied.
"I didn't look at the registry or anything, so..."
"That's totally fine, I'm sure..."
"You can open now if you want, I mean_"
"I... I should wait for John, probably..."
"Yeah. Probably."
They paused.
"Do you want to come in?"
The invitation evoked honest surprise in the young man. He had expected to hand off the gift and leave, though the next bus would not be for hours. The wait had become his routine, however, for nearly every occasion. He felt the usual sticking and piercing, and strange aching, of the typical effort of moving about for longer than an hour.
"Sure," he replied, and so stepped inside.
The house contained dark, well-maintained wooden floors, a mostly open floorplan, furnished with a flawless combination of antique and modern pieces, the glass-topped coffee table expertly littered with magazines for science, ecological friendliness, vegetarian recipes, occasionally juxtaposed with neo-literary novels with absurd titles, along with the addition of the box. The place seemed a showroom, with the small kitchen's divider from living room being a movable bar-like island.
"Do you want anything?" she said. "John and I are on this diet right now for his next race, so we're trying to keep away from alcohol for a while..."
"No, I'm fine. Thanks for the offer though."
He was quick to respond in this instance, when he was often not.
"Do you want some water? I'll just pour a couple of glasses of water."
The young woman had never been so chatty, at least in his experience. He watched as she pulled out a filter-pitcher from the narrow and minimally stocked refrigerator, taking two abnormally ornate glasses denoting a visit to the East Coast, from a cupboard just above the sink and poured each to the same level. The young man finally sat down on a sofa which could only either be over fifty years old or purchased new the week before, just as the second homeowner took a seat next to him, taking two coasters from the far corner of the coffee table to set their glasses upon. He reached into an inside coat pocket, almost involuntarily, feeling the small canister of pain-sparing medication, in an attempt to settle his tensing nerves. It was there, as it typically was.
"How have you been?" the woman began, after a sip of water, and a gaze at an empty wall. A laptop sat upon a desk where most would put their television, envelopes of internet-rented DVD's beside it. An ancient, restored shelf held more books and uncommon films, beside the desk.
He wanted to be honest. He drank the filtered tap water, and kept drinking it, as if it were something else. The curtains, hand-sewn, perhaps? were held wide open.
"I don't know," he replied, borderlining on flippant, shrugging. He watched as the woman stared ahead, then into her glass.
"Damir, if you're not willing to have a convers_"
"Amira, we never 'small-talk'. Not since the first day we met."
"It's been a long time since the_"
"Has it now?" he said, his voice rising.
She stood, taking their glasses back placing them in the sink, before opening a locked cabinet below the sink. She pulled out a dark bottle, with a foreign label, and pulled out a stout snifter, pouring a caramel liquuid to a fourth, and took a sip, almost wincing in its recent unfamiliarity.
"That's some real commitment you have there, Amira," he muttered under his breath.
"Look, you can leave, you can get out of here right now, if you just keep_"
"Alright, alright... I'm sorry..."
"God," she said, exasperated.
She drank more, but slower than the first sip. He approached the kitchen, standing beside the island with its near empty glass and dark foreign bottle. The woman glared at him for a moment, before sighing, and turning toward the cupboard with its glasses.
"You sure you should be drinking? Don't you... don't you need to drive home?" she said, as she pulled out a glass identical to hers.
He took a moment before replying, before deciding to bite his tongue. Perhaps something of value could come to this "conversation".
"No, no it should be fine. I took the bus."
"Are you sure? No interference with medications or anything, or..." she said, as she refilled hers and inadvertently paused at his.
"I promise you, it is fine, Amira."
As soon as she set down the bottle, the two seemed to race to drink, but wound up synchronized with their modest sips.
"You took the bus four hours from_" the woman began.
"Yeah."
"The nearest bus stop is five miles away."
"Your point?"
"Nothing."
"Anyway. What were we talking about?"
"How... how are you doing?"
He paused to stare at the liquid in his glass, darker and richer than the thin, vaguely cucumber-flavored water he had forced down his throat earlier.
"You first," he urged his old friend.
"I've been doing well," she began, attempting to mask her deliberation, the calculations conducted in her head as to what aspects of marital bliss she felt comfortable with exposing.
"You have a nice house," he noted superfluously.
"Thanks."
They each drank, at once.
"John's been doing well at work. I'm getting... close to finishing up my degree."
She had double-majored in Botany and Environmental Science. Completing her master's degree in Environmental Science, he recalled.
"Great."
"Mhmm."
She poured them each more, as they had drank between speaking. They were silent for a few moments, each within his and her own mind. Considering attacks and peacemaking plans and wondering anxiously and painfully about the other's life and the utter dangers of treading such fragile ground.
Damir stared at the perfect floor, just worn enough to prove lived upon, but just clean enough to seem untouched.
"How... how is everything with you and John?" he began, feeling a new stabbing sensation with the words slipping from his mouth. And the anticipation of its answer.
He watched her light up again, as she had at the door, without her endearing surprise.
"We're doing very well. He's... he's really passionate about what he does, Damir. I'm... I'm so proud of him. To be with him. I mean, I love him... I've never known someone so deeply passionate about what they care about. And he's always so honest. And yet so optimistic. I... I honestly think he could save the world, at least some of it..."
The young man nodded at whatever moments deemed appropriate, as he filled his glass the second time.
"I'm... happy for you," he finally said, feeling that stabbing turn into twisting. It wasn't a knife, but a thousand shards of glass, piercing his gut, his chest.
The wife obliged the man with her response.
"That... that means a lot, Damir. Thank you."
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