writers_muses - hidden
Perry spends most of Saturday morning in the office. Just a few hours, tying up some loose ends. When he returns home shortly before noon, he finds his fiancée sitting at the kitchen table pouring over a large collection of textbooks, the windows open, the radio on. The Stones are playing. He smiles - that’s something they have in common. Their taste in music. She’s sitting on one foot as she often does, while the other foot taps along to the beat. She’s wearing a pair of white capri pants, a light blue tank top, and flip flops, with her hair swept up off her neck. He doesn’t see Casual Martha enough these days.
“Hey,” he greets her, dropping his briefcase unceremoniously at the door.
“Hey.” Her reply is easy, distracted, and she doesn’t look up.
Perry shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the door frame looking into the kitchen. “You know, you look about seventeen from where I’m standing.”
At this, Martha looks up, snorting. “You’re delusional.”
“I mean it,” he insists, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Is this part of our therapy?” She asks, raising an eyebrow, challenging him. “A constant, completely unrealistic stream of positive reinforcement?”
He sighs heavily, taking a long sip from the bottle and leaning against the counter. “How long are you gonna be giving me shit about this therapy thing?”
Martha avoids eye contact and purses her lips the way she does when she knows she’s wrong. “I am not…giving you ‘shit.’ I’m just…not used to having to go through something like this.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t be perfect like Jonathan was.”
She looks up, glaring at him. “Jonathan was not perfect.” Just perfect for me… “We were just…younger then. We had less baggage.” She holds up a pen and points it at him with sudden conviction. “And to be honest, I’m surprised you’re so gung-ho about all this.”
“How come?”
“You hate therapists!”
“Yeah, I hate therapists,” Perry admits grudgingly. “But this goes beyond all that crap. I’d turn to anyone who could help us here. I’d turn to Satan. I’d get on my goddamn knees in front of Lionel Luthor and beg if it meant saving this relationship.”
Martha has him locked in her sights. “Saving?” She carefully puts the pen down, without moving her gaze off him. “I thought we were going to therapy to improve our relationship. I wasn’t aware it needed saving.”
“That’s not what I meant, Martha, and you know it.”
“We’ve been told in therapy to choose our words carefully,” she says, standing up and closing her books. “To look for the underlying meaning of the things we say. Freudian slips and all that.”
“Where are you going?” He asks, because he can think of nothing better to combat her accusation.
“I’m having lunch with Grace downtown, then running to the market,” she replies, now standing in the doorway.
He nods thoughtfully, processing something different entirely, and looks down for a moment. When he finally looks up, his expression is changed. “Do you want to postpone the wedding?”
She’s quiet for a long while, her thoughts consumed with implications and consequences and most importantly, with questions. “How bad do you think that would be?” She asks softly.
Perry sighs, looking at her earnestly. “As long as you keep that ring on your finger, I’d say we’re okay.”
She glances down at her left hand, then back up at him. “It’s not going anywhere,” she promises, then turns on her heel, grabs her purse, and walks out the door.
Martha Kent
Smallville
609
“Hey,” he greets her, dropping his briefcase unceremoniously at the door.
“Hey.” Her reply is easy, distracted, and she doesn’t look up.
Perry shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the door frame looking into the kitchen. “You know, you look about seventeen from where I’m standing.”
At this, Martha looks up, snorting. “You’re delusional.”
“I mean it,” he insists, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Is this part of our therapy?” She asks, raising an eyebrow, challenging him. “A constant, completely unrealistic stream of positive reinforcement?”
He sighs heavily, taking a long sip from the bottle and leaning against the counter. “How long are you gonna be giving me shit about this therapy thing?”
Martha avoids eye contact and purses her lips the way she does when she knows she’s wrong. “I am not…giving you ‘shit.’ I’m just…not used to having to go through something like this.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t be perfect like Jonathan was.”
She looks up, glaring at him. “Jonathan was not perfect.” Just perfect for me… “We were just…younger then. We had less baggage.” She holds up a pen and points it at him with sudden conviction. “And to be honest, I’m surprised you’re so gung-ho about all this.”
“How come?”
“You hate therapists!”
“Yeah, I hate therapists,” Perry admits grudgingly. “But this goes beyond all that crap. I’d turn to anyone who could help us here. I’d turn to Satan. I’d get on my goddamn knees in front of Lionel Luthor and beg if it meant saving this relationship.”
Martha has him locked in her sights. “Saving?” She carefully puts the pen down, without moving her gaze off him. “I thought we were going to therapy to improve our relationship. I wasn’t aware it needed saving.”
“That’s not what I meant, Martha, and you know it.”
“We’ve been told in therapy to choose our words carefully,” she says, standing up and closing her books. “To look for the underlying meaning of the things we say. Freudian slips and all that.”
“Where are you going?” He asks, because he can think of nothing better to combat her accusation.
“I’m having lunch with Grace downtown, then running to the market,” she replies, now standing in the doorway.
He nods thoughtfully, processing something different entirely, and looks down for a moment. When he finally looks up, his expression is changed. “Do you want to postpone the wedding?”
She’s quiet for a long while, her thoughts consumed with implications and consequences and most importantly, with questions. “How bad do you think that would be?” She asks softly.
Perry sighs, looking at her earnestly. “As long as you keep that ring on your finger, I’d say we’re okay.”
She glances down at her left hand, then back up at him. “It’s not going anywhere,” she promises, then turns on her heel, grabs her purse, and walks out the door.
Martha Kent
Smallville
609