(no subject)
Hot Fuzz drabble;
You wrote this in your notebook, years ago, on the train to Sandford.
When you love somebody, they carve out a place in your heart, and you're always so sure that you can handle the pain. Sometimes the spot hurts when you're happy, makes you think you could die. In the end it always scars, and every rainy day is one too many.
You're looking at it now, under the awning of the shop and holding the crumpled piece of notebook paper, in the hand once stabbed through by a butcher's knife, your youngest scar. Once upon a time you were engaged, almost. You can hardly remember her ring size anymore. Can hardly remember what she looks like; the image of the man whom you had mistaken to be her on your last day as a PC is always the first thing that comes to mind. You still have the scar she left behind, but you can practically carry it like a third arm now.
"Hey monkey," someone walks out of the shop with two blue cornettos. You take an ice cream and he takes your hand, his cushy thumb pad caressing the thin bump of imperfect skin on your palm.
"How did you get this one?" He asks. But today, after you've told the story that always begins with "I've told you this one before", he squeezes your hand instead of letting go.
"Does it hurt? You know, when it's all wet outside."
You look down at the tiny ball of paper you just tossed into the rubbish to free up your hand for the cornetto.
"No. Not when it's warm, anyway."
He nods as you walk into the street with him, and he doesn't let go of you until you've reached the car.
You wrote this in your notebook, years ago, on the train to Sandford.
When you love somebody, they carve out a place in your heart, and you're always so sure that you can handle the pain. Sometimes the spot hurts when you're happy, makes you think you could die. In the end it always scars, and every rainy day is one too many.
You're looking at it now, under the awning of the shop and holding the crumpled piece of notebook paper, in the hand once stabbed through by a butcher's knife, your youngest scar. Once upon a time you were engaged, almost. You can hardly remember her ring size anymore. Can hardly remember what she looks like; the image of the man whom you had mistaken to be her on your last day as a PC is always the first thing that comes to mind. You still have the scar she left behind, but you can practically carry it like a third arm now.
"Hey monkey," someone walks out of the shop with two blue cornettos. You take an ice cream and he takes your hand, his cushy thumb pad caressing the thin bump of imperfect skin on your palm.
"How did you get this one?" He asks. But today, after you've told the story that always begins with "I've told you this one before", he squeezes your hand instead of letting go.
"Does it hurt? You know, when it's all wet outside."
You look down at the tiny ball of paper you just tossed into the rubbish to free up your hand for the cornetto.
"No. Not when it's warm, anyway."
He nods as you walk into the street with him, and he doesn't let go of you until you've reached the car.