[Brahms] Two of Swords
The last traces of wintery chill are faint in the air now, occasional snowflakes disintegrating upon intersecting with the steady earth. Of the original 19 flushed peachy-pink hydrangias, she's now down to 8, to be divided amongst 3 cemetaries. Lakeside, Broadview, Fairview. Against some tombstones, Henry bears no grudge. Sharon Blake, the little Locanes, it's not that he doesn't want respects paid to them or that he doesn't want color laid upon their graves. He just doesn't want Eileen Galvin to be the one doing it. And he definitely doesn't want her doing it for the likes of Andrew DeSalvo.
He's been making that perfectly clear. The man was distracted from the very moment he woke up this morning, neglecting a greeting and not meeting her eyes at first. She thinks she may have even detected a note of hurt in his withdrawn demeanor, a bit of a cold shoulder for her victory in that argument. For feeling ditched? For feeling helpless? For thinking she does not understand how much her health and safety mean to him? Eileen can only guess. She'd taken notice of it, but followed up with no steps to correct it, plenty distracted herself by the meaning of today's date. Today was the day that people met violent ends, that her supposedly-inviolate home bore witness to a violent beginning, that Walter Sullivan was scattered to the winds and that Henry's self-image as a miserable failure was, by all appearances, pretty permanently cemented. Today was the culmination of watching and careful plans dating back to Henry's young adulthood and her very young childhood, back before that to Walter's own birth, to plagues and prisons and the death of a people. She wants all that to be over now for them, but on this date, is just physically incapable of living up to that wish. Today her steps were heavy with grief and regrets, caught up in remembering everything she'd lost and everything everyone else had too, and she put off smoothing his attitude out until tomorrow.
And now, as she nestles the last of the original bouquet in the crook of her arm, he's got his hands thrust deeply in his pockets, scowling in profound irritation. She heaves a hassled sigh, hitching her purse strap up more securely on her shoulder and pulling out her phone. They've ducked off behind some kind of service shed off of the sole graveyard Brahms has to its name, always careful not to appear or disappear in public view. Henry, ever vigilant on both their behalfs, does the duty of scanning for unexpected pairs of eyes, finding none that would hamper her departure. As she dials in the number sequence from a scrap of paper clutched in her flower-hand, she gives him a semi-apologetic shrug and tries to communicate reassurance with her eyes alone, and that's it. Kissing him and offering spoken comfort is an option that occurs to her but is discarded; the less she treats this like it's actually worth making a big deal of, she figures, the better.
He's been making that perfectly clear. The man was distracted from the very moment he woke up this morning, neglecting a greeting and not meeting her eyes at first. She thinks she may have even detected a note of hurt in his withdrawn demeanor, a bit of a cold shoulder for her victory in that argument. For feeling ditched? For feeling helpless? For thinking she does not understand how much her health and safety mean to him? Eileen can only guess. She'd taken notice of it, but followed up with no steps to correct it, plenty distracted herself by the meaning of today's date. Today was the day that people met violent ends, that her supposedly-inviolate home bore witness to a violent beginning, that Walter Sullivan was scattered to the winds and that Henry's self-image as a miserable failure was, by all appearances, pretty permanently cemented. Today was the culmination of watching and careful plans dating back to Henry's young adulthood and her very young childhood, back before that to Walter's own birth, to plagues and prisons and the death of a people. She wants all that to be over now for them, but on this date, is just physically incapable of living up to that wish. Today her steps were heavy with grief and regrets, caught up in remembering everything she'd lost and everything everyone else had too, and she put off smoothing his attitude out until tomorrow.
And now, as she nestles the last of the original bouquet in the crook of her arm, he's got his hands thrust deeply in his pockets, scowling in profound irritation. She heaves a hassled sigh, hitching her purse strap up more securely on her shoulder and pulling out her phone. They've ducked off behind some kind of service shed off of the sole graveyard Brahms has to its name, always careful not to appear or disappear in public view. Henry, ever vigilant on both their behalfs, does the duty of scanning for unexpected pairs of eyes, finding none that would hamper her departure. As she dials in the number sequence from a scrap of paper clutched in her flower-hand, she gives him a semi-apologetic shrug and tries to communicate reassurance with her eyes alone, and that's it. Kissing him and offering spoken comfort is an option that occurs to her but is discarded; the less she treats this like it's actually worth making a big deal of, she figures, the better.