response #2 to challenge "U2 Singles Titles"
Set pre-series.
"Even Better Than The Real Thing"
Irina has, in odd hours, read the applicable laws. The validity of her marriage to Jack would depend largely on the temperament of the judge who made the decision. But she is not thinking of legal minutiae here. In her mind, she is the judge, and she rules that Jack Bristow is not her real husband.
They make love, sleep side-by-side and awaken to the crying of an infant daughter with Irina's nose and Jack's ears. Is it real? Isn't it? Everything that happens between them happens for totally different sets of reasons, and Jack has never guessed at Irina's reasons for being by his side. They talk about his job, about politics, about his coworkers and their personalities. Jack tells Laura because he must tell someone, because he has so few outlets for intimacy that those he has are vital to him - but it is Irina who listens, who catalogues, who reports. How can such intimacy be real?
It can't be. Real intimacy flows both ways, and Jack knows almost nothing of Irina. Oh, he's perceptive: He has picked up on her need for solitude, her insight and her complicated feelings about motherhood. When they are at the Sloanes, and Arvin makes one of the odd little digs that always sets her teeth on edge, Jack's hand finds her shoulder or elbow in a small gesture of reassurance. Five years into their marriage, he knows her body's responses almost better than Irina does himself.
But Jack talks about the burdens of spying as though she were innocent of them, ignorant even, until Irina wants to slap him for his presumption. He doesn't know how she spends her time. He has no idea of her family history. He doesn't even know her real name.
No, what they have is an illusion.
Irina is comfortable with that judgment. What she is uncomfortable with is the considerable power of illusion.
She drifts into the illusion more and more often now - for a whole day, sometimes several days or even a week. When she readies Sydney's bottle while Jack tries to distract the hungry, wailing baby - when he comes to one of her students' poetry readings and grabs her hand hard to keep them both from laughing at a particularly bad metaphor - or when he kneels at the foot of the bed, parting her thighs with his hands, as her breath catches in anticipation - Irina doesn't think about her mission then. Or even about being Irina Derevko. She's lost in maze of experiences, both good and bad, that simulate reality all too well.
Sometimes Irina only remembers her real self when she has to. That's the most dangerous part of all. They warned her about this, of course, and she had thought herself prepared. As though anybody could be prepared to live a false life for five years.
When illusions are stronger than reality, Irina thinks, it doesn't become any more difficult to remember what's real. It simply becomes so tempting to forget.
"Even Better Than The Real Thing"
Irina has, in odd hours, read the applicable laws. The validity of her marriage to Jack would depend largely on the temperament of the judge who made the decision. But she is not thinking of legal minutiae here. In her mind, she is the judge, and she rules that Jack Bristow is not her real husband.
They make love, sleep side-by-side and awaken to the crying of an infant daughter with Irina's nose and Jack's ears. Is it real? Isn't it? Everything that happens between them happens for totally different sets of reasons, and Jack has never guessed at Irina's reasons for being by his side. They talk about his job, about politics, about his coworkers and their personalities. Jack tells Laura because he must tell someone, because he has so few outlets for intimacy that those he has are vital to him - but it is Irina who listens, who catalogues, who reports. How can such intimacy be real?
It can't be. Real intimacy flows both ways, and Jack knows almost nothing of Irina. Oh, he's perceptive: He has picked up on her need for solitude, her insight and her complicated feelings about motherhood. When they are at the Sloanes, and Arvin makes one of the odd little digs that always sets her teeth on edge, Jack's hand finds her shoulder or elbow in a small gesture of reassurance. Five years into their marriage, he knows her body's responses almost better than Irina does himself.
But Jack talks about the burdens of spying as though she were innocent of them, ignorant even, until Irina wants to slap him for his presumption. He doesn't know how she spends her time. He has no idea of her family history. He doesn't even know her real name.
No, what they have is an illusion.
Irina is comfortable with that judgment. What she is uncomfortable with is the considerable power of illusion.
She drifts into the illusion more and more often now - for a whole day, sometimes several days or even a week. When she readies Sydney's bottle while Jack tries to distract the hungry, wailing baby - when he comes to one of her students' poetry readings and grabs her hand hard to keep them both from laughing at a particularly bad metaphor - or when he kneels at the foot of the bed, parting her thighs with his hands, as her breath catches in anticipation - Irina doesn't think about her mission then. Or even about being Irina Derevko. She's lost in maze of experiences, both good and bad, that simulate reality all too well.
Sometimes Irina only remembers her real self when she has to. That's the most dangerous part of all. They warned her about this, of course, and she had thought herself prepared. As though anybody could be prepared to live a false life for five years.
When illusions are stronger than reality, Irina thinks, it doesn't become any more difficult to remember what's real. It simply becomes so tempting to forget.