IT'S A MATTER OF TIME [BEFORE WE ALL RUN OUT]
History
He doesn't want therapy. He doesn't need it. That's what he tells himself, but the Marine's say differently. He was in a war, they say. He's seen things no one else can imagine, they say. He needs to talk about it, they say.
He says it's all a bunch of bullshit, but Mary gives him that little smile of hers and marches him to the door herself. He doesn't quite catch what she says, but he nods and smiles anyway because she's always had a way about her that makes him melt like a puddle of butter on a stack of pancakes.
(Her saying, mind you, not his.)
He still thinks it's bullshit as he sits down, but she squeezes his hand and smoothes down her jeans as she pulls her legs up onto the chair and he squeezes back softly. She can take it, he knows, but he always thinks he's too rough with her. Nothing is good enough for his girl, that's for sure.
She amuses him with the town's latest gossip and he doesn't realize it when his name is called until she gives him a shove and he's on his feet. He looks back at her when he reaches the door, feeling more like he's going into battle again than just talking about it. She gives him a bored look and shoos him on.
Who did he think he was, expecting pity from Mary? Musta hit his head or something.
She's there waiting for him when he comes back out and he wonders for a second if he thought otherwise. He didn't -- he couldn't -- Mary was always waiting on him. She waited for the first hello, the first dance, the first kiss. (After that she just took matters into her own hands.) But she still waited. For him to come home, for the first smile when he stepped off the bus, and now she was waiting for him to come back to her again.
One day, he knew, he was gonna catch her off guard. She wouldn't be waiting for anything and he'd surprise her.
It was her own fault anyway, impatient woman.
He doesn't want therapy. He doesn't need it. That's what he tells himself, but the Marine's say differently. He was in a war, they say. He's seen things no one else can imagine, they say. He needs to talk about it, they say.
He says it's all a bunch of bullshit, but Mary gives him that little smile of hers and marches him to the door herself. He doesn't quite catch what she says, but he nods and smiles anyway because she's always had a way about her that makes him melt like a puddle of butter on a stack of pancakes.
(Her saying, mind you, not his.)
He still thinks it's bullshit as he sits down, but she squeezes his hand and smoothes down her jeans as she pulls her legs up onto the chair and he squeezes back softly. She can take it, he knows, but he always thinks he's too rough with her. Nothing is good enough for his girl, that's for sure.
She amuses him with the town's latest gossip and he doesn't realize it when his name is called until she gives him a shove and he's on his feet. He looks back at her when he reaches the door, feeling more like he's going into battle again than just talking about it. She gives him a bored look and shoos him on.
Who did he think he was, expecting pity from Mary? Musta hit his head or something.
She's there waiting for him when he comes back out and he wonders for a second if he thought otherwise. He didn't -- he couldn't -- Mary was always waiting on him. She waited for the first hello, the first dance, the first kiss. (After that she just took matters into her own hands.) But she still waited. For him to come home, for the first smile when he stepped off the bus, and now she was waiting for him to come back to her again.
One day, he knew, he was gonna catch her off guard. She wouldn't be waiting for anything and he'd surprise her.
It was her own fault anyway, impatient woman.