Coreen/Thirteen Drabble for Jackie---Bewitching
Coreen studied their hands, clasped together, fingers entwined as their bodies had been hours earlier. Her hand was so...different. So foreign, yet, so familiar; Remy's long, delicate fingers, nails blunted by clippers and a file, curled around her own. Short, but strong, with slightly longer nails, but polish in the same amount of disarray. Was there anything outside of their hands; this moment? She didn't think so. She just saw and felt. It's all she could do. There wasn't any way to see around what was there to look ahead. She'd always lived her life months in advance...which may be why she hadn't seen Remy standing in front of her, waiting, for so long. Remy's affection, her love had come as a surprise. There was nothing more to it than that-Remy; Lucky Thirteen-was a fluke.
And now, they were holding hands. Remy's thumb ran over her knuckles. Her hands were dry; Coreen imagined it was a combination of the shitty weather, and the powder in the latex gloves she had on and off all day. She could smell it on Remy's skin; latex, powder, leather and the slightest traces of perfume.
Coreen's hand, by no means clammy, was smudged with charcoal and dried paint. She'd been working, furiously, until Remy had stopped her, massaging the developing blisters on her fingers. She had said something about drawing and painting until her hands bled, and they nearly had. She remembered, sheepishly, the cool water running over them, as Thirteen had quietly chastised her for working herself too hard.
But it just wasn't...done correctly. It wasn't perfect; if it wasn't perfect it was wrong. She swore she'd do whatever it took to make it right.
“Cor, honey...it looks perfect to me,” Thirteen had said, trying to reassure her. It hadn't worked.
Her eyes, and their hands were all she could think of. She could tell, very dully, that Remy was speaking to her, but the words came to Coreen's brains as if they were in a different language, and her head was in a fish tank.
The absinthe probably wasn't helping. It was, however, helping her see the tiny flecks of color in Remy's eyes, and the iridescent specks in the nail polish. The tiny triangles that made up Thirteen's skin. The light blue veins that pumped her blood through her body. Yes...it helped all this.
She finally drew her eyes from their tangled fingers to Remy's face. She studied her for a long moment before speaking.
“I know how to fix the painting,” she said, at long last.
Remy looked relieved. “How?”
“I need to not paint your eyes,” she said, as she ran her free hand against Remy's cool cheek. “I need to paint your heart. I can see it, in your eyes.”
Remy smiled softly. “Oh you can, can you? What do you see?”
“Everything that I think the world should be, and nothing it shouldn't.”
“A utopia, in my eyes?”
“Perfection; that's what I see, when I look in your eyes.”