[ It's better not to answer...oh, any of that. Better not to admit she is lonely, and terribly so, lest he think she blames him.
Better not to acknowledge the rest, or how it drew a faint smile from her. Exasperated, yes, but a smile nonetheless. But - what must he be thinking, to have said that? What hope stirred in his intoxicated brain, what need reared?
A swiping grasp for affection?
Oh, she knows that feeling. That longing for anything, anyone, just to quiet the ache.
And the sudden recoil, yes, she knows that, too. The grasp become a slap, a refusal of any hand reaching back.
She can't help him.
Companionship, though. She can give that.
So, without further response, she takes her book and wanders to Brom's study, a place fallen to disuse - where she has noticed Treavor seems to take some preference in loitering. Finds him there, of course, of course, and she lingers for a moment in the doorway only watching him. Only thinking that his presence in this room is less objectionable than its former master's.
Her approach is cautious, learned not from this husband's responses, but from those of the last: an effort not to startle. To let him gradually become aware - and to avoid any violence. A flung glass, a thrown book. A snarl. A fist.
Right to his side, her head canted and brow knit to lines, and a light hand brushing his shoulder.
(And, still, that resonance: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. In every action, in the twist in her breast, in the prick at the corners of her eyes.
Maybe he couldn't have had better. But surely, he deserves more than this funereal house, and its cold mistress.
no subject
Better not to acknowledge the rest, or how it drew a faint smile from her. Exasperated, yes, but a smile nonetheless. But - what must he be thinking, to have said that? What hope stirred in his intoxicated brain, what need reared?
A swiping grasp for affection?
Oh, she knows that feeling. That longing for anything, anyone, just to quiet the ache.
And the sudden recoil, yes, she knows that, too. The grasp become a slap, a refusal of any hand reaching back.
She can't help him.
Companionship, though. She can give that.
So, without further response, she takes her book and wanders to Brom's study, a place fallen to disuse - where she has noticed Treavor seems to take some preference in loitering. Finds him there, of course, of course, and she lingers for a moment in the doorway only watching him. Only thinking that his presence in this room is less objectionable than its former master's.
Her approach is cautious, learned not from this husband's responses, but from those of the last: an effort not to startle. To let him gradually become aware - and to avoid any violence. A flung glass, a thrown book. A snarl. A fist.
Right to his side, her head canted and brow knit to lines, and a light hand brushing his shoulder.
(And, still, that resonance: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. In every action, in the twist in her breast, in the prick at the corners of her eyes.
Maybe he couldn't have had better. But surely, he deserves more than this funereal house, and its cold mistress.
This half-corpse of a wife.) ]