Private Practice Ficlet: dinosaurs do sleepwalk in the city
shut up; i'm still not admitting i watch.
dinosaurs do sleepwalk in the city
“- we were never about the coffee shops,” and she speaks as if she’s swallowing Manhattan again, “and he never carried my books.”
private practice. addison. naomi.
general; 527 words, g.
Naomi tells the story better;
“Think you were in love - really in love?” always a pause, since this is really about Sam, “I mean, god, I fell for it too - the works, the honeymoon and the gorgeous dress, the sex, always the sex, and we sorta did okay with the kid, you know?”
There’s a bottle of wine in the sand, circled with cracked shells and their shoes skewed and tossed aside. Like college, her mouth turns, and Addison’s always more about the reminiscing long-term.
She shrugs. “You did okay.”
“I did okay.”
The success measured between them is always shifting, it’s never a problem; it’s why they’re friends, between them, the time of understanding and struggling, really struggling, for a step into proper directions. They used to talk all the time about it, before the split of space. It’s nothing new, of course, and she feels like they’re getting older, secretly standing still.
“I never liked Derek.” Naomi presses, another glass for Sam this time, the expectation of him moving faster than her.
“I know you know, but I didn’t. The pretentious ass that he was, he was -”
Addison’s mouth turns. “Derek?”
Oddly enough, they never do talk about Mark or the before. Never stretch back to that time; they spun out of contact long before that, longer really, but still Addison’s never carried a poker face and their own separation is sort of more than just sore.
She shrugs again, “we were never about the coffee shops,” and she speaks as if she’s swallowing Manhattan again, “and he never carried my books. Just a lot of sex in the shower. And on the stairs. Against the wall -”
There’s a snort oh please and she laughs, the exaggeration pressing her lips over the glass. Wine swims softly in her mouth, her tongue stroking the back of her teeth as she settles back. The noise is something to get used to. She keeps waiting for an explosion of traffic, sounds and vices, and maybe, secretly the rain. No, she doesn’t miss him. She thinks, instead, that she’s come to terms - it wasn’t about fixing her marriage, it wasn’t about making him understand or Mark.
Her release, her turn; it was long due.
“You did okay too.”
Addison looks up in surprise. It’s self-indulgent, this kind of reassurance, and she’s not really a fan of it - probably why she doesn’t miss Manhattan as much, what she was set to become and what she became instead. Naomi knows about the baby, before, and the friend knows about Mark without asking, and the sudden twist of nonsense she wrapped herself around.
But this is the real question. She doesn’t really answer, just lets her shoulders roll and cranes her neck back and up to tilt and watch the house. She’s listening to the water, guessing that the romanticizing is supposed to hit really, at some point. It doesn’t though and she’s less than expectant.
“Well,” her amusement is clear, “as long as there’s no Pete.
Naomi doesn’t laugh and there’s a mutter “there better not be,” as they pass the bottle between them again.
-
dinosaurs do sleepwalk in the city
“- we were never about the coffee shops,” and she speaks as if she’s swallowing Manhattan again, “and he never carried my books.”
private practice. addison. naomi.
general; 527 words, g.
Naomi tells the story better;
“Think you were in love - really in love?” always a pause, since this is really about Sam, “I mean, god, I fell for it too - the works, the honeymoon and the gorgeous dress, the sex, always the sex, and we sorta did okay with the kid, you know?”
There’s a bottle of wine in the sand, circled with cracked shells and their shoes skewed and tossed aside. Like college, her mouth turns, and Addison’s always more about the reminiscing long-term.
She shrugs. “You did okay.”
“I did okay.”
The success measured between them is always shifting, it’s never a problem; it’s why they’re friends, between them, the time of understanding and struggling, really struggling, for a step into proper directions. They used to talk all the time about it, before the split of space. It’s nothing new, of course, and she feels like they’re getting older, secretly standing still.
“I never liked Derek.” Naomi presses, another glass for Sam this time, the expectation of him moving faster than her.
“I know you know, but I didn’t. The pretentious ass that he was, he was -”
Addison’s mouth turns. “Derek?”
Oddly enough, they never do talk about Mark or the before. Never stretch back to that time; they spun out of contact long before that, longer really, but still Addison’s never carried a poker face and their own separation is sort of more than just sore.
She shrugs again, “we were never about the coffee shops,” and she speaks as if she’s swallowing Manhattan again, “and he never carried my books. Just a lot of sex in the shower. And on the stairs. Against the wall -”
There’s a snort oh please and she laughs, the exaggeration pressing her lips over the glass. Wine swims softly in her mouth, her tongue stroking the back of her teeth as she settles back. The noise is something to get used to. She keeps waiting for an explosion of traffic, sounds and vices, and maybe, secretly the rain. No, she doesn’t miss him. She thinks, instead, that she’s come to terms - it wasn’t about fixing her marriage, it wasn’t about making him understand or Mark.
Her release, her turn; it was long due.
“You did okay too.”
Addison looks up in surprise. It’s self-indulgent, this kind of reassurance, and she’s not really a fan of it - probably why she doesn’t miss Manhattan as much, what she was set to become and what she became instead. Naomi knows about the baby, before, and the friend knows about Mark without asking, and the sudden twist of nonsense she wrapped herself around.
But this is the real question. She doesn’t really answer, just lets her shoulders roll and cranes her neck back and up to tilt and watch the house. She’s listening to the water, guessing that the romanticizing is supposed to hit really, at some point. It doesn’t though and she’s less than expectant.
“Well,” her amusement is clear, “as long as there’s no Pete.
Naomi doesn’t laugh and there’s a mutter “there better not be,” as they pass the bottle between them again.
-