#noretribution

close to her,    right against her,    his chin rests against her shoulder.      she feels the vibrations of the hum against her flesh,    as if her bone was connected to his jaw,   fused together at the muscle.      I’ll look at the coffee maker after I shower,    he promises,   mouth soft against her skin.      worry runs atop her as if it wished to take her place,     to switch her out with something full of confusion,   of fragility.      it is as if she were made of static noise,    a balloon over carpet,    hair sticking up at its ends.      their separate reactions are just that:     vague understandings from the other,    influenced by the other:      she feels her body go straight ---  he pulls himself away.       the mug she finds in her hands settles to the countertop with its own unease;    she turns around to face him,   sees a body leaning backwards against the island,    legs crossed at the ankles.      brows knitted to their inner corners;     that once - going mouth now silent.      she foils this expression somehow  (  eyebrows bright and her mouth going up at the corners  )  and she resumes making her tea.        

silver spoon clinks against the rim of teacup.    he  [ @noretribution​ ]  begins first,   they continue in tandem:      you okay,   dee?   ||    chilly,   a bit.   i’m alright.    ||    you’re never tense this early...    he has become familiar with her,   left no stones unturned when it came to her moods,   emotions,    reactions.      a glance is given to him,    a moment taken to give a pointed and casual look.     I’m alright,    she says again,    intonation on the final word,    i don’t want you worrying.      the room is made silent then.     she begins to rustle again,    teacup lifted to her mouth and another spoonful of sugar added.      behind her,    mitch begins his own routine,    a heavy pause between her words and the next.    in an instant,  he asks about her sleep.      in an instant,     she apologizes for waking him,    for accidental bedside violence.     

It was nothing.     and his  [  @noretribution​  ]  voice comes after a moment of consideration,    lighthearted and full of his own worry,   a fine edge of gravitas around syllables:    ❝  It was something  ( you’re not usually so full of disquiet )  don’t say it wasn’t.      ❞        and she turns to him,    her mouth now made into a frown,    expression shifted for the more solemn.      

he   [  @noretribution​​  ]   is the first to move from the dining table,   takes both their plates in his hands and walks them to the kitchen.      she does not know what he is talking about,    wine glass of red tapped at the stem as he leaves the room,    words like static through his mouth and against the air.     she hears the dishwasher open and dishware nudge itself over;    the tap turns on and then off.     then,   over everything,    ❝  but, love is a kind of killing. don’t you know that ?    ❞      the world begins to slow down almost instantly.     her head is sharp to turn towards the archway,    hand jerking against glass.     wine spills atop the table,    a pool of ruby.

𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.      the moment the wine spills,   she advances to her feet with a slight noise of surprise.     a napkin is brought to the spill as quick as she can do so,   glass pushed further to the center of the table.     ❝   a kind of killing ?  ❞      finally she answers,   the mouth catching up faster than her mind:      instantly she has been made silly,   nerves bunching with romantic inclination and bursting at their seams.      after a glare at the table,   she changes her mind;    the glass is gathered in one hand,    dyed red napkins in the other,   and she walks towards the kitchen.        ❝   sorry  ---  had a spill.    what do you mean,   a killing ?   do you kill a part of yourself when you love ?  ❞

the needle threads into his skin again,      the needle pulls back out of flesh and tightens.        another bout of silence.      she can feel him thinking underneath her fingers,     his mind  (  brilliant,    stubborn,    utterly wondrous.  )  whirring even as she kisses his cheek   –––   a sigh leaves her throat.        ❝  i love you,    though i am sure you know that.     i would love you even in death,     but i do not wish to reach that place so quickly.    ❞      the clock on the wall ticks loudly in between her pauses.     a plea is muttered underneath her tongue.    O’ Aphrodite,   I pray that our time is not cut so short...

at last  ––   mitch  [  @noretribution   ]  grumbles underneath her.      a bit of skin goes red from where he shifts,    a small groan passing through his mouth.     ❝  fuck  ––  well,    here’s a place for it to happen,    ❞     spoken matter of fact,    the place where the skin grew taut rolled and rubbed.     ❝  ––  a place for me to love you.    ❞

there is another moment of tender silence.      his hands thread through her hair and she knows that he is waiting,    waiting.      he shifts besides her,    mouth opening to ask the question that waits on his tongue,    soft and sweet and gentle:       ❝   where did you just go?   ❞       whispered  against the top of her head.

she does not give the full - bodied laugh she usually would.      exhaustion creeps up on her like a long past friend,    the eyes closing as she lifts her head to kiss the side of his mouth.     ❝   you’d never believe how many people need saving in the late hours.     the work never ends,    but right now   (   ...   )    i am taking a break to be with you.     ❞

tonight:    he  [  @noretribution ]  finds her between the setting sun’s rays and his kitchen space,     a spoon scooping through a half - full carton of ice cream.       she fits into this area of living,    this common dance of domesticity that they’ve forged for themselves:     work ends at a reasonable time and she comes to find Him,   comes to hug him,    comes to inhale him...     the spoon dips back into the carton,    a neat ball of vanilla brought up to her mouth as the gaze goes upwards itself  –––  He is spotted in the second;    her mouth curls into a smile.       

❝    𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴?    ❞        asked sweetly,    as if the ice cream were made from her tongue.      the spoon scoops another ball of vanilla,    the chin gesturing towards him.      when he does not advance towards the carton,    instead opting to assume his place behind her,   arms gentle to wrap around her waist,     she stifles a chuckle.    

the words leave his mouth before she can speak,    warm and muffled against her skin but as clear as day.      ❝   i love you sideways daily.   ❞