I have written a tiny little bit for the first time in well over ten days...It's more of the Willow.
Bare feet slap the cold tiles of the kitchen floor as she enters. They've made a ritual of it, he and she. Her silence and his distance combine to give shape to the coming day--to hold off the night.
She watches as he makes the toast, slicing the bread with the sharp edge of a knife that's never known blood and sliding it into the toaster with a deft shove. His hands are steady as he pours the water from kettle to pot, and then he slides into the chair across the table from her with the hiss of his cotton against the seat and the rustle of the paper to hide his face.
In any one of those moments, he might speak to her. Sometimes she thinks that behind the newsprint, he only waits for her to speak first. She knows that words would free her from ghosting through the day, but she cannot, quite, muster the will to act.
Her eyes shout to him as she butters her toast. Another beautiful early summer day has broken, and she wants to feel the wonder of it, but she hides from it instead. The toast disappears, and she watches, willing him to look at her, to make her feel something that is normal.
He won't, she knows. To look at her is as to touch her -- to give her form when there's no one waiting to catch her.
That's for the night.