The Cold

She thinks she saw a smile, just the hint of one at the corners of his mouth, but is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?

Even worse, was it sympathy? I'm sorry you got it so wrong?

But she's been replaying the kiss all day and it did not seem then that she had got it wrong. It was unmistakably desire that she read in his eyes. It was unmistakably desire that she tasted, desire not born of a moment of random lust but the kind that builds and builds over years, a decade almost, desire and tenderness and the sense that this is what everything has been leading to, like the climax on the penultimate page of a novel. Unreasonable sense, misleading sense, deluded sense, not sense at all, she now realizes.

She wonders how she will face him tomorrow.

She left everything out there on the table, everything, not just a key in an envelope. Her heart. Her dreams. Her aspirations, so inexorably bound up in him.

And now - rejection. Shame. Deep, deep embarrassment. She thought she knew what that felt like - but silly incidents with old underwear pale into insignificance now. Because this is not just mortification - this is pain at its sharpest and deepest. She's made herself vulnerable, opened herself up, shown her cards instead of clutching them to her heart like she's attempted to all these years. And the result? Just this sense of being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. And her whole body aching for him.

What lies before me? is what she'd think if she were at all able to be coherent when she p0urs herself the last glass of room-service wine, not quite chilled enough to be pleasant even in the best of circumstances, even if, say, they were drinking it lying together on the bed, afterwards,  laughing at their years of playing cat and mouse. What lies before me? Another day of putting up a front. The mask goes back on. Keep calm and carry on, that's what the British say, but she doesn't see how she can walk this one back. Everything else can be explained away - you look amazing is something you can say to your sister - but not this. This is the first time she has been absolutely clear. And it will be the last.

Unless there's magic...

She's pretty sure the magic came and went today. She drains her glass, buries her face in the pillow, and allows the pain to flood her face.

She shivers.

She's cold. So cold.

Making breakfast for a stranger

She realizes with a start that she doesn't know what he eats for breakfast. Not fruit, obviously, but could be be one of those strange people who eat cereal dry and drink milk on the side? Or pop tarts? Maybe pop tarts? Instant and fast-food-like. That sounds about right. Nothing would surprise her, really, which is odd, because she thought he had stopped surprising her years ago, that she could anticipate not only his every move but his every need, his every... desire. Well, yes. Anyway.

Suddenly open before her is this brave new world of trivial discoveries, the everdayness of being together before the make-up goes on, no masks, no job titles, just two people with their quirks and foibles and she knows there must be plenty of those yet to unearth. Does he put his socks on before or after his pants? Brush his teeth before or after breakfast? (Neither? She shudders.) How many times does he hit snooze before he rolls out of bed?

She knows about the coffee, of course, cream and three sugars, the key to early-onset diabetes. Maybe she could start making it for him after all, gradually reduce the sugar intake. Would he even notice?

She watches as he stumbles out of the shower room, hair still dripping onto his face, blushes with the embarrassment of catching herself thinking girlish thoughts about how hot he is, how she's so glad they finally did it, how all the other girls would be so jealous and my goodness did they have reason to be.

"You made me coffee?" He's incredulous. "You mean all this time all I needed to do to get you to bring me coffee was kiss you?"

She takes a breath, prepares to protest that she seems to remember something more than just kissing, something that may well have gotten them both fired back then. But she does not get a chance to say any of it because his lips are on hers, and she notes approvingly that he does brush his teeth first thing after all.

"I'll make you breakfast too, if you're really lucky."

He shakes his head at her domesticity. "Breakfast is not something you make, Donna. Breakfast is something you grab on the way to the office."

She smiles: she knew this about him all along, of course she did. Perhaps the real surprise is to find that deep down in her reptilian brain stem she has always absolutely known him. The newness of waking up with him, of walking hand in hand through the cold dark DC mornings, rosy-faced and shaking off the snow as they walk into Starbucks for their blueberry muffins: that is extraordinary enough.

Thanks to Sarah Solway for the "Making breakfast for a stranger" prompt...