ex_laundering808: (Default)
IRENE ([personal profile] ex_laundering808) wrote in [community profile] drear 2014-07-02 01:20 am (UTC)

Chinese.

[She doesn't love it: in fact, neither of them are overly fond of it, but her son likes the fortune cookies and it's cheap, easy enough to slide onto a plate after a long day. A sit-down restaurant has never been their style, nor can she imagine fitting in amongst the cocktail dresses and tuxedos, him with his leather gloves and her with the same rotation of dresses, wrinkled and sun-bleached from last summer.

To hear him ask is comforting, familiar, normal, the way a husband would ask his wife after hard hours of work. Even though they weren't spouses, probably never could be, even the barest imitation of domestic bliss is something she cherishes.

She closes the door behind him, taking his discarded jacket in one hand to drape it across a chair, not taking her gaze away from him, as if searching for bruises or bloodstains. She has learned not to ask where he's been, but her concern weighs heavily all the same.

She wants him to wrap her up in his arms, to kiss her, but as with everything between them, the most meaningful moments go unsaid.]


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