[ Perhaps this is why they've found one another: who but her could understand him? Who else could see the shadows of damage, and comprehend them? She can't heal him, can't help him, but surely, they could cease to be so utterly alone.
Or is she only imposing on him what she wishes to see? Has she become so miserable a woman that she finds comfort only in the misery of someone else? This poor man, isolated and snarling. Maybe his life wasn't lamentable, before she came -
No, no, look how he responds to her touch. Look how he watches her through the drunken haze, as though seeing her (or anyone) for the first time. Remember the hope leeching into his voice.
Oh, what cold comfort it would have been, had she relented and let him bed her. Even reaching out for someone hated and unwanted has its merits for driving back unhappiness. For forgetting, just for a little while. (Nevermind the sick shame when morning comes. Nevermind the bitter aftertaste.) But this is better: innocent compassion. A touch without expectation.
He doesn't bristle at this.
And she?
It feels merciful, to touch someone this way. It feels like long-forgotten compassion, this recognition of a soul just as lost and wounded as her own. To approach someone seeking friendship, after months - years, even - of being maneuvered. Guided from one hour to the next by someone else's intentions. Unfeeling.
She feels for him. Pity, for the most - but what more is there to offer him when, as he says, she doesn't know him? ]
No, I don't know you.
[ Gentle, gentle agreement. Let the rest slip by unacknowledged: she isn't lucky. She thought once that she might be, that she had been born fortunate and would end her days blissful.
She knows better now.
Ha; he knows better. His correction earns a sad huff, almost a laugh. Not quite a laugh.
And her hand draws back, fingers through his hair, testing how much of this familiarity he'll allow. How much she cares to give. ]
It need not be that way. Must we be strangers?
[ An echo, vague, of a voice that might have been her own. Five years past, how flirtatiously she might have offered that query: wouldn't you like to be more familiar with me? Such a chasm between then and tonight, when the words come full of despondency. A plea for warmth instead of - oh, whatever she wanted of men, when she was still so free.
It occurs to Katrina then that this is not merely an effort to extend consolation to her odd, isolated husband: how direly she would like a friend. Someone who hasn't known her so intimately, who might think they comprehend every facet of her existence, and still somehow achieves utter misunderstanding. Here is someone who might like to know her cleanly, and allow her to be only her present and future - what little there is of either - instead of her history.
And even if only this, it would be welcome: how comforting it would be to find him in a room and not skirt him, but rather to feel at ease in his company. ]
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Or is she only imposing on him what she wishes to see? Has she become so miserable a woman that she finds comfort only in the misery of someone else? This poor man, isolated and snarling. Maybe his life wasn't lamentable, before she came -
No, no, look how he responds to her touch. Look how he watches her through the drunken haze, as though seeing her (or anyone) for the first time. Remember the hope leeching into his voice.
Oh, what cold comfort it would have been, had she relented and let him bed her. Even reaching out for someone hated and unwanted has its merits for driving back unhappiness. For forgetting, just for a little while. (Nevermind the sick shame when morning comes. Nevermind the bitter aftertaste.) But this is better: innocent compassion. A touch without expectation.
He doesn't bristle at this.
And she?
It feels merciful, to touch someone this way. It feels like long-forgotten compassion, this recognition of a soul just as lost and wounded as her own. To approach someone seeking friendship, after months - years, even - of being maneuvered. Guided from one hour to the next by someone else's intentions. Unfeeling.
She feels for him. Pity, for the most - but what more is there to offer him when, as he says, she doesn't know him? ]
No, I don't know you.
[ Gentle, gentle agreement. Let the rest slip by unacknowledged: she isn't lucky. She thought once that she might be, that she had been born fortunate and would end her days blissful.
She knows better now.
Ha; he knows better. His correction earns a sad huff, almost a laugh. Not quite a laugh.
And her hand draws back, fingers through his hair, testing how much of this familiarity he'll allow. How much she cares to give. ]
It need not be that way. Must we be strangers?
[ An echo, vague, of a voice that might have been her own. Five years past, how flirtatiously she might have offered that query: wouldn't you like to be more familiar with me? Such a chasm between then and tonight, when the words come full of despondency. A plea for warmth instead of - oh, whatever she wanted of men, when she was still so free.
It occurs to Katrina then that this is not merely an effort to extend consolation to her odd, isolated husband: how direly she would like a friend. Someone who hasn't known her so intimately, who might think they comprehend every facet of her existence, and still somehow achieves utter misunderstanding. Here is someone who might like to know her cleanly, and allow her to be only her present and future - what little there is of either - instead of her history.
And even if only this, it would be welcome: how comforting it would be to find him in a room and not skirt him, but rather to feel at ease in his company. ]