(no subject)
The Wake of Saturday
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
PG
for we_are_cities may 22, 2007 prompt.
“What if…” Greta bites her lip, looks down at her lap, and then back up. “I told you…” She squirms, sighs and the words she wants to say are right there, right on the tip of her tongue. But her courage is somewhere else today and her stomach is uneasy. She has goose bumps despite the mild weather and she can’t seem to get comfortable. “I told you that I wanted to move east?” She blinks once, twice, three times and leans forward in her chair, letting her hair catch the wind. “Or maybe, maybe even to a farm somewhere in Europe?” She tries to look hopeful and excited, tries to get her eyes to twinkle like Ryan says they do when she really is thrilled with an idea. “Hm?”
Ryan shrugs. “Well,” he begins and meets her gaze, “I guess I’d just have to follow you east.” He winks at her, a smug smile on his lips. She lets out a small laugh, almost forced, and Ryan wonders what she’s trying to pull here. Her feet are shuffling, her eyes are sharp and darting, and those are never good signs. He shakes his head and lets his smile melt away. “Come on, Greta,” he whispers, “what do you want to say?”
“What makes you think that?” she shoots back. Her hands shake slightly when she brings them up to her face to scratch an itch that’s not there. Panic is growing in her head because what if he knows?
“When you’re lying to me Greta, you touch your face.” Ryan leans back and inspects her carefully. He wonders what on earth she’s trying to say and why she has to play these games with him constantly. “Come on. Don’t do this to me today. I’m tired,”
Greta stands and leans over the banister of the balcony. She doesn’t like this apartment now, not since last night, it’s too uncomfortable and she’s feeling so sick. Her thin fingers wrap around the metal. “Ryan…” She won’t be able to live with him after this.
“Greta.”
Her eyes are pricking with tears. The lines she rehearsed this morning are lost and jumbled in her head. She can’t be cliché; she’s not cliché, oh no, she’s definitely not.
In front of her, through the tears, is a stunning view of Chicago. All buildings and skyline, it’s what she wanted since she was twelve. She remembers how Ryan brought her right through the apartment and kissed her on the cheek from behind and said that she doesn’t have to wish anymore. And that’s how it’s been for the past two years: smiles and kisses and late nights. It’s been perfect, but she’s been so tactless.
“Greta.” Ryan spits, agitated.
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “What if I told you that last night I went out?”
“God, I knew that Greta.” Ryan hates this game, always has, always will. He can see her body quivering, though, and he grows suspicious, maybe even angry. “Is there more?” he mumbles. His suspicion, and nervousness, increases when she won’t look at him and when she sniffs and shivers.
“And what if I told you…” She stops and lets out a sob.
Ryan stares straight ahead and is trying to hope for the best but his imagination is running wild. His hands start to move over his arms, legs, through his hair, over his chin. It’s a nervous habit he has had since a kid. It used to drive his dad crazy. “Greta, just tell-”
“What if I told you, Ryan, I slept with Bob?” she whispers, words quick and short, barely there, tears running down her face. She could force a million excuses onto Ryan about how they were drunk, how every possible couch and bed at Bob’s were occupied except for his, or how Bob’s girlfriend just dumped him three days short of their three year, but she won’t because she knows it will just make things worse. That and how she’s ready to throw up on the street below.
“Well, fuck,” Ryan breathes, heart twisting.
--
Ryan hardly notices when the glasses start to disappear one by one and he doesn’t notice the boxes of Greta’s things gathering in the corner of the living room; he’s too occupied with Greta never being home anymore. He doesn’t notice Greta’s keyboard disappear from the second bedroom they use as a music room.
When Greta is home he hardly talks to her, but he longs for her delicate beauty that used to shine through just for him; she steers clear of him.
At breakfast Greta eats on the couch with the one juice glass left. Ryan uses a coffee mug for his juice, uses the plastic utensils he picked up at the supermarket, uses the cracked bowls that used to sit on the top shelf in the back, and uses the dish rags he bought at Wal-Mart to clean the few dishes.
Over a bowl of cereal he misses the large spoons that used to be in the drawer next to the stove, and fumbles with the small, flimsy one. His eyes catch Greta chewing a bagel slowly, her body tucked into the couch seemingly, and, hey, the blanket is missing from the arm rest. He stands up and walks down the hall to the linen closet, only to find it half empty. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Greta,” he calls. He walks back to the living room, puzzled. “Greta, where’d all our-” He stops. There it is in a box next to a pile of other boxes. “Ah, nevermind.”
Greta blinks. “Okay,” she replies flatly. Her eyes subtly go to the boxes, then back to him.
Ryan goes back down the hall to the bathroom to take a shower. He’s steaming but it’s all hitting him- a lot of the things in their apartment aren’t his. They’re Greta’s. And they’re all disappearing a little at a time. Why didn’t he catch on? How did he dismiss all of this?
--
He can’t say he wasn’t expecting this. Walking in to find all of Greta’s stuff gone wasn’t a surprise. How he was missing a bed, towels, silverware, all of the art they used to have on the walls, and Greta’s miscellaneous things he used daily didn’t faze him. He simply sat down on the couch and looked at the key on the coffee table. “Right,” he says after a while because that’s all there is to say.
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
PG
for we_are_cities may 22, 2007 prompt.
“What if…” Greta bites her lip, looks down at her lap, and then back up. “I told you…” She squirms, sighs and the words she wants to say are right there, right on the tip of her tongue. But her courage is somewhere else today and her stomach is uneasy. She has goose bumps despite the mild weather and she can’t seem to get comfortable. “I told you that I wanted to move east?” She blinks once, twice, three times and leans forward in her chair, letting her hair catch the wind. “Or maybe, maybe even to a farm somewhere in Europe?” She tries to look hopeful and excited, tries to get her eyes to twinkle like Ryan says they do when she really is thrilled with an idea. “Hm?”
Ryan shrugs. “Well,” he begins and meets her gaze, “I guess I’d just have to follow you east.” He winks at her, a smug smile on his lips. She lets out a small laugh, almost forced, and Ryan wonders what she’s trying to pull here. Her feet are shuffling, her eyes are sharp and darting, and those are never good signs. He shakes his head and lets his smile melt away. “Come on, Greta,” he whispers, “what do you want to say?”
“What makes you think that?” she shoots back. Her hands shake slightly when she brings them up to her face to scratch an itch that’s not there. Panic is growing in her head because what if he knows?
“When you’re lying to me Greta, you touch your face.” Ryan leans back and inspects her carefully. He wonders what on earth she’s trying to say and why she has to play these games with him constantly. “Come on. Don’t do this to me today. I’m tired,”
Greta stands and leans over the banister of the balcony. She doesn’t like this apartment now, not since last night, it’s too uncomfortable and she’s feeling so sick. Her thin fingers wrap around the metal. “Ryan…” She won’t be able to live with him after this.
“Greta.”
Her eyes are pricking with tears. The lines she rehearsed this morning are lost and jumbled in her head. She can’t be cliché; she’s not cliché, oh no, she’s definitely not.
In front of her, through the tears, is a stunning view of Chicago. All buildings and skyline, it’s what she wanted since she was twelve. She remembers how Ryan brought her right through the apartment and kissed her on the cheek from behind and said that she doesn’t have to wish anymore. And that’s how it’s been for the past two years: smiles and kisses and late nights. It’s been perfect, but she’s been so tactless.
“Greta.” Ryan spits, agitated.
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “What if I told you that last night I went out?”
“God, I knew that Greta.” Ryan hates this game, always has, always will. He can see her body quivering, though, and he grows suspicious, maybe even angry. “Is there more?” he mumbles. His suspicion, and nervousness, increases when she won’t look at him and when she sniffs and shivers.
“And what if I told you…” She stops and lets out a sob.
Ryan stares straight ahead and is trying to hope for the best but his imagination is running wild. His hands start to move over his arms, legs, through his hair, over his chin. It’s a nervous habit he has had since a kid. It used to drive his dad crazy. “Greta, just tell-”
“What if I told you, Ryan, I slept with Bob?” she whispers, words quick and short, barely there, tears running down her face. She could force a million excuses onto Ryan about how they were drunk, how every possible couch and bed at Bob’s were occupied except for his, or how Bob’s girlfriend just dumped him three days short of their three year, but she won’t because she knows it will just make things worse. That and how she’s ready to throw up on the street below.
“Well, fuck,” Ryan breathes, heart twisting.
--
Ryan hardly notices when the glasses start to disappear one by one and he doesn’t notice the boxes of Greta’s things gathering in the corner of the living room; he’s too occupied with Greta never being home anymore. He doesn’t notice Greta’s keyboard disappear from the second bedroom they use as a music room.
When Greta is home he hardly talks to her, but he longs for her delicate beauty that used to shine through just for him; she steers clear of him.
At breakfast Greta eats on the couch with the one juice glass left. Ryan uses a coffee mug for his juice, uses the plastic utensils he picked up at the supermarket, uses the cracked bowls that used to sit on the top shelf in the back, and uses the dish rags he bought at Wal-Mart to clean the few dishes.
Over a bowl of cereal he misses the large spoons that used to be in the drawer next to the stove, and fumbles with the small, flimsy one. His eyes catch Greta chewing a bagel slowly, her body tucked into the couch seemingly, and, hey, the blanket is missing from the arm rest. He stands up and walks down the hall to the linen closet, only to find it half empty. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Greta,” he calls. He walks back to the living room, puzzled. “Greta, where’d all our-” He stops. There it is in a box next to a pile of other boxes. “Ah, nevermind.”
Greta blinks. “Okay,” she replies flatly. Her eyes subtly go to the boxes, then back to him.
Ryan goes back down the hall to the bathroom to take a shower. He’s steaming but it’s all hitting him- a lot of the things in their apartment aren’t his. They’re Greta’s. And they’re all disappearing a little at a time. Why didn’t he catch on? How did he dismiss all of this?
--
He can’t say he wasn’t expecting this. Walking in to find all of Greta’s stuff gone wasn’t a surprise. How he was missing a bed, towels, silverware, all of the art they used to have on the walls, and Greta’s miscellaneous things he used daily didn’t faze him. He simply sat down on the couch and looked at the key on the coffee table. “Right,” he says after a while because that’s all there is to say.