6
[o_0 ... bit of fodder but...!]
6.
When Jenny finally managed to open her sticky eyes, she had to shield her face with her hand against the bright sun that burst through a gap in the curtain. She wasn’t sure what time it was, and, squinting through the gaps in her fingers, she wasn’t certain how she had got from the living room to her bed. The chances were though, that the warm body spooned behind her had something to do with it. Emma’s arm, heavy with sleep, lay over Jenny’s hip; where her shirt-sleeve had rolled up in the night, a patchy imprint of Jenny’s jeans showed red against her milky skin.
The memories of the night before slowly filtered into Jenny’s wakening consciousness. The seemingly endless tears, the choking attempts to talk and the embarrassment of it all. Emma making tea. Emma cooking something, and making more tea. And then the exhaustion. The desperate need to sleep that came so suddenly and could not be fought off. Looking back, Jenny had been incredibly antisocial: she cried all over Emma’s shoulder, ate and drank and then fell asleep without as much as a please or thank you.
Jenny gradually shifted out of Emma’s hold. She didn’t want to wake her - not yet. Jenny was sure that she looked worse for wear. Without needing to look in the mirror, Jenny could feel the throb of her puffy eyes, could taste the tacky residue of tears, and if she looked as like she felt, then she needed to assert some serious damage control before she could face anyone.
In the bathroom, she was proven correct. She glanced in the mirror, quickly pointed a frown at herself and splashed her blotchy face with cold water. As she straightened up again, towel in hand, she caught her reflection and couldn’t help but stare. Who was this person looking at her? She looked like someone familiar but it was not the Jenny she wanted to show to the world. She was bare - unarmed, and she didn’t like it. She reached for her makeup bag; the tried and tested method of dealing with any situation. It was a comfort to go through the familiar routine of preparation, application and finalisation. Putting on her makeup was methodical, mundane, and so welcome. She took time in it, enjoying how reassured a little bit of pampering could made her feel.
As Jenny smoothed on some lip gloss, the realisation hit her that this morning had been the first in… who knew how long… since that day when she had woken up without the suffocating sensation in her chest. The thought of it froze her: her hands had been busy tying her hair up into a messy ponytail, but they came to a stop, her fingers tangled at the back of her head as she peered at her image in the mirror. Overnight, the storm of loss had worked into a calm. A deep sadness still persisted through her body, gnawing like so many tiny teeth, but the overwhelming tide of grief had subsided. For now at least.
What did this mean? Was this a cruel lull before it came back, worse than ever? Or could she dare to hope that the recovery, the thing that all the terrible leaflets she had read had told her would happen eventually, was beginning? She looked at the floor, ashamed at the need to ease her grief: her parents were dead. Was she disrespectful?
The padding of approaching footsteps disturbed her, and she elbowed a tube of moisturiser onto the floor as she spun around to meet Emma at the door.
“Oh! There you are, I’m sorry, I should have knocked,” Emma said, blinking away sleep and already backing away from the open doorframe. Her voice was drowsy, the clothes she had slept in were outrageously creased, and her hair was untidy on the side of her head that had rested against the pillow overnight.
“No, I’m all done here,” Jenny replied swooping down to pick up her moisturiser, thankful for the interruption.
She took a step towards Emma and felt the unfamiliar stretch of a smile on her face. She liked Emma first thing in the morning - she was delightfully dopey. “Look at you,” she thought aloud, “what are we going to do with you?” she asked, smoothing down the swirls in Emma’s hair. Jenny’s hand slowly traced from Emma’s hair to her cheek. Without thinking, she kissed her, and did not mind at all when Emma’s hands clumsily searched out her waist. It had been some time since Jenny had taken any pleasure in anything at all, and now here she was, spoiling herself on makeup and kisses, and all before breakfast.
Breakfast. Food. As much as she was enjoying waking up Emma, who had gone from asleep to alert in a matter of seconds, Jenny could not deny the rumble in her stomach. She pulled herself back enough to suggest it, and set off for the kitchen.
Emma caught Jenny’s arm as she was leaving. “Jenny…” she hesitated about whether to ask the question that usually caused so much trouble. “…is everything okay?”
Jenny took a breath as if to begin to speak, only to stop herself. She had been about to throw out her usual autopilot response, and felt herself blush beneath her foundation. After last night’s events, she knew it would no longer be a line she could get away with using. Suddenly shy, she could not take Emma’s gaze; it was too keen, too searching for her somehow.
“Honestly? I don’t know…” she quietly said, surprised she was being truthful. She took hold of Emma’s hand, still not able look her fully in the eye, “but this minute, everything is okay.”
***
6.
When Jenny finally managed to open her sticky eyes, she had to shield her face with her hand against the bright sun that burst through a gap in the curtain. She wasn’t sure what time it was, and, squinting through the gaps in her fingers, she wasn’t certain how she had got from the living room to her bed. The chances were though, that the warm body spooned behind her had something to do with it. Emma’s arm, heavy with sleep, lay over Jenny’s hip; where her shirt-sleeve had rolled up in the night, a patchy imprint of Jenny’s jeans showed red against her milky skin.
The memories of the night before slowly filtered into Jenny’s wakening consciousness. The seemingly endless tears, the choking attempts to talk and the embarrassment of it all. Emma making tea. Emma cooking something, and making more tea. And then the exhaustion. The desperate need to sleep that came so suddenly and could not be fought off. Looking back, Jenny had been incredibly antisocial: she cried all over Emma’s shoulder, ate and drank and then fell asleep without as much as a please or thank you.
Jenny gradually shifted out of Emma’s hold. She didn’t want to wake her - not yet. Jenny was sure that she looked worse for wear. Without needing to look in the mirror, Jenny could feel the throb of her puffy eyes, could taste the tacky residue of tears, and if she looked as like she felt, then she needed to assert some serious damage control before she could face anyone.
In the bathroom, she was proven correct. She glanced in the mirror, quickly pointed a frown at herself and splashed her blotchy face with cold water. As she straightened up again, towel in hand, she caught her reflection and couldn’t help but stare. Who was this person looking at her? She looked like someone familiar but it was not the Jenny she wanted to show to the world. She was bare - unarmed, and she didn’t like it. She reached for her makeup bag; the tried and tested method of dealing with any situation. It was a comfort to go through the familiar routine of preparation, application and finalisation. Putting on her makeup was methodical, mundane, and so welcome. She took time in it, enjoying how reassured a little bit of pampering could made her feel.
As Jenny smoothed on some lip gloss, the realisation hit her that this morning had been the first in… who knew how long… since that day when she had woken up without the suffocating sensation in her chest. The thought of it froze her: her hands had been busy tying her hair up into a messy ponytail, but they came to a stop, her fingers tangled at the back of her head as she peered at her image in the mirror. Overnight, the storm of loss had worked into a calm. A deep sadness still persisted through her body, gnawing like so many tiny teeth, but the overwhelming tide of grief had subsided. For now at least.
What did this mean? Was this a cruel lull before it came back, worse than ever? Or could she dare to hope that the recovery, the thing that all the terrible leaflets she had read had told her would happen eventually, was beginning? She looked at the floor, ashamed at the need to ease her grief: her parents were dead. Was she disrespectful?
The padding of approaching footsteps disturbed her, and she elbowed a tube of moisturiser onto the floor as she spun around to meet Emma at the door.
“Oh! There you are, I’m sorry, I should have knocked,” Emma said, blinking away sleep and already backing away from the open doorframe. Her voice was drowsy, the clothes she had slept in were outrageously creased, and her hair was untidy on the side of her head that had rested against the pillow overnight.
“No, I’m all done here,” Jenny replied swooping down to pick up her moisturiser, thankful for the interruption.
She took a step towards Emma and felt the unfamiliar stretch of a smile on her face. She liked Emma first thing in the morning - she was delightfully dopey. “Look at you,” she thought aloud, “what are we going to do with you?” she asked, smoothing down the swirls in Emma’s hair. Jenny’s hand slowly traced from Emma’s hair to her cheek. Without thinking, she kissed her, and did not mind at all when Emma’s hands clumsily searched out her waist. It had been some time since Jenny had taken any pleasure in anything at all, and now here she was, spoiling herself on makeup and kisses, and all before breakfast.
Breakfast. Food. As much as she was enjoying waking up Emma, who had gone from asleep to alert in a matter of seconds, Jenny could not deny the rumble in her stomach. She pulled herself back enough to suggest it, and set off for the kitchen.
Emma caught Jenny’s arm as she was leaving. “Jenny…” she hesitated about whether to ask the question that usually caused so much trouble. “…is everything okay?”
Jenny took a breath as if to begin to speak, only to stop herself. She had been about to throw out her usual autopilot response, and felt herself blush beneath her foundation. After last night’s events, she knew it would no longer be a line she could get away with using. Suddenly shy, she could not take Emma’s gaze; it was too keen, too searching for her somehow.
“Honestly? I don’t know…” she quietly said, surprised she was being truthful. She took hold of Emma’s hand, still not able look her fully in the eye, “but this minute, everything is okay.”
***