#caustxc

caustxc started following you

You place your violin case carefully on the carpet and draw your legs up onto the cushions, peering at him intently. Your concert can wait. "So, what was it--"

You reach out suddenly to tug at a strand of hair above his lip. "You need to shave."

And resume immediately. "--What was it like?"

A vague question, and you know it. It could pertain to several things, all of which you want to hear the answer to: How did it feel to be on a road trip? What did you do? What's it like being around so many people you knew from back then?

so you nap on the seat, letting the bob and sway of the van and the warmth of the sun through the window lull you into a light sleep...

you don't even notice that they've stopped at first, but you can vaguely hear them chattering, greeting someone -- an unfamiliar voice, but it makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

Erwin.

you shut your eyes tight and pretend to be asleep. you think that if you pretend hard enough, you might just slip blissfully out of consciousness. you don't need this; not again. quietly, you check your phone, observe the dash. you're not sure if you can stomach the waves of painful familiarity at the moment, but there's that new one. that woman.

you reply to her, ask her offhandedly if she's been to your hometown because you think you may know her and it makes you feel very warm. talking to her -- annoying though she may be -- reminds you of days spent contentedly prowling the city you grew up in, of familiarity, of home. it's odd; you don't think too much about it. 

finally, you rise, scratching at your hair with practiced false-disinterest. "What'd I miss?"

that was the best sleep i've gotten in years

no regrets about falling asleep on nile either.

He has kids.

He has two kids.

A hollow feeling expands in her chest. Questions, like needles, prick at her skull -- Is he married? Is he involved with them? How old are they? Where do they live? Is he fucking with her? Is this a game to him? Does he know how much she hurts when her wounded pride cracks and splinters?

Anka's sweating. She kicks the comforter away, pushes the laptop to the far end of the bed with her heel. She's mad. Mad at him. Mad that she's mad in the first place.

It's a waste and she's a fool. 

She stalks rigidly to the mini-fridge, yanks out an open bottle of wine and chugs. Tears make her vision swim, threaten to spill, but she stares skyward as the dry, acrid liquid pours down her throat.