Gifts (February)eileen303March 2 2008, 16:36:53 UTC
The second time was in Portland, and it didn't go quite as well. Walter in his childlike guise had begun to haunt their footsteps again, though he hadn't broken out the heavy weaponry nor banished any of their friends to alternate dimensions yet. Only pledged affection for the mother of his obsessive delusions, and demanded hers in return. Henry walked his friend home from work at night, watched her with worried eyes and sometimes wasn't terribly successful at concealing yearning while he was at it. And one afternoon, he left a prearranged pink cluster of french tulips, bells of Ireland, baby's breath, and lilies on her kitchen counter, the stems still wrapped in shining plastic from the florist. She awww'd again and threw in a "You didn't have to!" He was obviously regretting the move, explaining that she'd been under a lot of stress lately. She put an arm around his shoulders and thanked him. If she'd kissed his cheek as it had occurred to her to do, maybe the reward would have offset the uncomfortable dance on the line between friend and more, and maybe there would've been more blooms in her life.
But the terminal blow was the roses. Three of them, dethorned and lovely, two scarlet reds and a whorl of ivory. He tore himself away from fascination with the freckles speckled in the hollow of her clavicle to retrieve them for her, looking so damned awkward and uncertain that he didn't even hand them to her, just set them down on the bed next to her and then took a step back to wait. She couldn't help it, she laughed. So sue her, she was delighted and he was clueless and cute, and the alternative was cringing in sympathy for his crippling self-consciousness and utter lack of even an iota of suave. He hadn't liked that response much, though, obviously even suspecting that when she promptly drew him down to encircle him in arms and legs, it was meant as a pat on the head for his foolishness. And thereafter, no matter how many times he whispered "I love you" in the dark, no matter how many times she could complete a sentence he was unable to finish, no matter how many funny-looking faces they were unembarrassed of making love in apartments that feel less and less separate, no matter how many photographs she exclaimed genuine admiration for and no matter how many times he surreptitiously included her in one, no matter how many times he tucked his arm around her in public and no matter how many times either of them looked at the other as though they could see God, Eileen expects she'll die with no more blossoms from those hands. And taken in comparison to the rest of that list, she doesn't even care.
But the terminal blow was the roses. Three of them, dethorned and lovely, two scarlet reds and a whorl of ivory. He tore himself away from fascination with the freckles speckled in the hollow of her clavicle to retrieve them for her, looking so damned awkward and uncertain that he didn't even hand them to her, just set them down on the bed next to her and then took a step back to wait. She couldn't help it, she laughed. So sue her, she was delighted and he was clueless and cute, and the alternative was cringing in sympathy for his crippling self-consciousness and utter lack of even an iota of suave. He hadn't liked that response much, though, obviously even suspecting that when she promptly drew him down to encircle him in arms and legs, it was meant as a pat on the head for his foolishness. And thereafter, no matter how many times he whispered "I love you" in the dark, no matter how many times she could complete a sentence he was unable to finish, no matter how many funny-looking faces they were unembarrassed of making love in apartments that feel less and less separate, no matter how many photographs she exclaimed genuine admiration for and no matter how many times he surreptitiously included her in one, no matter how many times he tucked his arm around her in public and no matter how many times either of them looked at the other as though they could see God, Eileen expects she'll die with no more blossoms from those hands. And taken in comparison to the rest of that list, she doesn't even care.
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