‘ * OTTO ! [ poweredsun ! ]
eyes slam shut, almost as if it hurts him physically - and it does, a little, knowing that it’s his own fault, something in the region of his heart constricting - but this is how he deals with that, analyzing the problem, working at it from all its angles so it won’t ever happen again. he wants so desperately to understand her view of it, to see why she refuses to meet his gaze. ( he can begin to guess: what he said was harsh and terrible, but he’s had time to sit with that now, and to reckon with the reasons he said it. her response, in its particulars, is still a mystery to him, as it’s been nothing but stony silence between them for hours. )
“ when, then? ” what might come across as a challenge is a genuine question from him, frustrated as his tone may be. “ tonight? we need to - at some point, we need to talk about this. ”
a steadying breath, and he steps closer; not into her space, never when she doesn’t want him there, but enough that he can take the towel from the counter and tuck it into the drawer handle below. ( something to do with his hands, he hopes she doesn’t think him judging her, cleaning up after her … ) moving on then to leaning against it, into her periphery. maybe she won’t be able to avoid him quite as readily, then. hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose and he sighs, heavily enough to sound just like his father. that particular realization makes him flinch on its own merit.
“ let me at least tell you i didn’t mean it. ”
it’s weak and he knows it, the wrong words for what he wants to say - which is that he thinks she’s brilliant, regrets ever calling that into question, and can’t bear to let this fester any longer than it already has without getting to the heart of it. from what little he remembers of his parents’ marriage, that’s where its problems were; they would fight, and then not talk for days until the anger wore off and they could be civil again, and he can’t let that happen here. he won’t.
she wants to avoid, wants to dodge and pull away, to retreat. the idea of staying out until she knows her husband has gone to bed is a tempting one but that is not the path to resolution. ( her mother’s voice rings in her head: never go to bed angry. ) they will have to resolve this eventually, to talk. she feels as though she is taking it out of proportion, exaggerating in reaction but that feeling clings in her chest anyway. tightens until she feels ribs become cage even if it is just temporary heartache. it will pass.
a deep breath, she bites the soft inside of her lip closing her eyes for a moment to think. “ i know it’s different: the stress, and the work, and i know you didn’t mean it . . . ” acknowledgement comes in a flurry of words, trying to make sure nothing is pointe, she did not want this to become a fight, does not want to hurt him. she knows what he thinks of her, has been pampered by praise sense they started dating, compared to him in brilliance, told she has an understanding he lacks when that no doubt goes both ways, but there was something about his tone, about the look in his features: prone to irritability when overcome with stress. she knows this too.
but there is a difference between what she knows and what she feels, and poet’s heart breaks at discrepancy, fluid articulation broken in beats that bring discomfort in the form of pregnant pauses, the tension between words lingering a moment longer than she would like. “ that doesn’t make it hurt less.” it is spoken in way of admittance, almost hesitant as finally she turns hurt gaze toward her husband. ( perhaps it has more to do with others than it does her, that there are those who may look between them and see the brilliant scientist who will change the world, and the english teacher, as if her occupation is lesser than, and to have him say it was confirmation, that everyone else has known some hidden truth and she is only now catching on. ) rosie adjusts her shawl over her shoulders, discomfort becoming physical, unsure how to stand, where to put her hands.
