Sorry for the romance novel diatribe. Lolz. Enjoy the next vignette in the evening I'm calling THE DINNER. This one hints at something that went down on their honeymoon, something we haven't seen (because I haven't written it), but is quite titillating, heeeheeheee.
*MWAH*
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He swiftly rifled through the keys on his keyring. Of course he had a guest house key. The guest house was a great little piece of real estate. He’d had plenty of occasions to make use of its fabulous amenities and relative privacy.
He slid the key into the lock but found the action unnecessary. It was already unlocked. She must be home, he thought, then corrected himself, she must be here. Here at the guest house. He was uncomfortable thinking of it as a home.
After a bracing inhale he swung the door inward and entered the cottage. She was at the sink. She turned, gave a small sort-of smile and then turned back to her task. “Hi.” She said, a bit awkwardly.
“Hello.” He responded in kind. He hadn’t really decided on how he should behave around her. The honeymoon had been partly torturous, partly pleasant, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that at all. And then there was the abominable way he’d conducted himself on the final night. He ground his teeth together thinking about it. How the fuck was he supposed to carry himself after that?
He’d been drunk. Very drunk. And he’d been a pig. His stomach flipped. He loathed himself for how he’d acted, what he’d done to her. She had pretended, this morning--the morning after, that it hadn’t happened. Hadn’t punished him or shrank from him or treated him any differently really. He’d wanted to apologize but had not. He still had yet to do so.
He watched her for a long moment as she ran some water in the sink. He wondered how to broach the subject. ‘Be a fucking man and own up to it, you sackless fuck.’ He admonished himself silently. But he couldn’t seem to move his tongue to that command. Instead he said: “What are you doing?”
She pushed the handle on the faucet to stop the stream of water. “Sorry?”
“What are you doing?” He repeated, moving toward the kitchen island. “Are you washing dishes?” He asked, fairly incredulous.
“She looked from him to the glass in her hand and back again, her brow furrowed. “Yes.” She said. “Is that—is there something wrong?”
He pulled a face. “Why?” He queried, completely non-plussed.
She mirrored his confusion. “I used some dishes.” She answered, indicating a plate, some flatware, a mixing bowl and a small frying pan along with the soapy glass in her hand. “Isn’t that—“ She paused, uncomfortable. “Is that allowed?” She wasn’t being facetious or flippant, she was honestly alarmed that maybe she’d over stepped some boundary, some rule of the guest house.
Grey shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “No, I mean, of course it’s allowed; this is your place now.” He swallowed. Fuck. He was uncomfortable with that fact. It was her place too. He shook his head again. “Of course you can use the fucking dishes.” He was irritated with himself and the words came out biting.
“Oh.” She said and bit her lip. They stared at eachother.
“I meant, why are you washing them by hand?” He asked, trying to sound more friendly and less antagonistic.
She glanced around the kitchen and shrugged slightly. “Is there another option?” she asked in a small, earnest voice.
He narrowed his eyes and smiled a little, genuinely amused. “Maggie, I’m named after a fucking appliance company.” He said with an half a chuckle. “You think we don’t have a dishwasher?”
She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t see one.” She replied simply.
He held her dark eyes in his gaze as he moved around the kitchen island and pulled automatically on a lower cabinet, without even having to look. A concealed apartment-sized top-load Calder dishwasher slid out effortlessly, revealing neat wire racks, and, along the top inner edge, a row of hidden buttons and controls. He smiled as her eyes widened in disbelief. “It’s part of the ‘Integrated’ kitchen line.” He explained. “So your kitchen can have all the modern conveniences without compromising your décor.” He used a ‘catalogue voice’ and she chuckled.
He watched her glance around at other cabinets suspiciously, and knew she was wondering what else was hidden around, behind the cottage-kitchen-clapboard facades. “There’s a trash compactor,” he moved to point each item out in turn “An under-counter microwave” that was a pretty recent addition, “A recycling center,” She moved as he came near, “a mini fridge and, what am I forgetting…” He spun in place for a moment, trying to figure out what he’s missed. “Oh, and a wine chiller.” He opened a lower cabinet near her legs to show the state-of the art wine fridge. “It has temperature controls and well, I don’t know. It chills wine.” He finished and she leaned down to peek.
“There’s champagne in here.” She marveled.
Grey rolled his eyes to the ceiling. His mother. Jesus, she was a romantic.
Maggie straightened up and they both realized they were standing a little close to one another. Grey gave her a weak smile, his gut twisting guiltily and stepped back to give her breathing room.
“Thanks for the tour.” She said with a timid smile.
“Mi casa es su casa.” He said with a little note of playful irony in his voice.
She narrowed her eyes but then seemed to decide he hadn’t meant it as a slight. “Gracias.” She responded with a wink, and moved back to the sink to resume the dish washing.
“You’re still going to hand-wash them?” He asked, a little perplexed.
She shrugged. “There’s just a few of them, it seems silly to let them sit in the dishwasher when I’ll have them done in a few minutes.”
Grey sighed and shook his head but didn’t comment. The one thing he doubted the cottage contained was a dish strainer. He slid open a drawer and pulled out a striped dish towel and moved to stand to her right.
She paused, her sponge stuffed inside the glass, her hands wet and soapy and she stared at him.
He lifted the towel in response. “You wash,” he said, “I’ll dry.”
She couldn’t hide her incredulity, but she nodded and rinsed the cup clear of soapy residue and handed it into Grey’s open and waiting dish towel.
He dried the glass thoroughly while she worked on the plate and returned it to the well-stocked cabinet where it belonged. He returned to her side to await the next item. They continued with this little routine in silence. Until each item had been scrubbed, rinsed, dried and put-away.
Grey was pensive. He wanted to talk, to make conversation or maybe broach the subject of his unacceptable behavior and offer an apology but he seemed unable to make words manifest. What the fuck? He’d never had any trouble at all making conversation. When he’s been ‘wooing’ Maggie, trying to get into her pants, he’d never have let conversation lag like this unless it was to allow for heavy petting and making out. Now he was tongue tied? He ran a hand through his hair and arranged the damp towel over the oven door handle.
“Thanks.” She said and moved around the kitchen island to sit at one of the bar stools. He just stared at her. He wondered how her day had been. Moving into a new place, alone, trying to settle in. It didn’t occur to him to ask ‘How was your day?’ He only stared dumbly.
Maggie licked her lips. “It’s a really beautiful house.” She offered, trying to break the tension between them. “Your parents are incredibly generous to let us stay here for a while.” Her hand went up to the silver pendant at the base of her throat and she swallowed.
He wondered if she’d been ill at all that morning. She’d been sick several times over the honeymoon. He wondered if she was feeling alright now. But it didn’t occur to him to ask.
“Yes.” He responded. He wanted to shake himself. What the fuck was his problem?
She blinked. A silence stretched on and still Grey stared.
“Look, I-“ he began at the same time she said “Listen, I—“.
They both stopped, looked at each other and laughed. It felt good to laugh, he acknowledged, feeling some of the squirming in his gut subside. And it felt very good to hear her share the laugh. That notion sort of irritated him and he furrowed his brow and looked at his shoes.
“Go ahead.” She encouraged him softly.
He swallowed. “Look.” He re-started, trying to pull courage from somewhere. “Look.” He repeated it and shook his head. He needed to do this. He had to do it. “I want to apologize.” He said stiffly. “For my actions.” His cadence was clipped, halting. “Last night.” He finished.
The silence that followed swished in his ears like the hypnotizing sound of the inside of a seashell.
“There’s no need.” She responded at length, surprising him. He snapped his head up.
“Excuse me?” Of course there was a fucking need. He’d practically raped her. He was an ass. He was worse than that. And he was ashamed.
“There’s no need to apologize.” She replied, resolute.
He tilted his head and searched her dark eyes but couldn’t make sense of her. “I think there is—“ He began but she waved a small hand dismissively.
“We’re married.” She said in explanation.
He didn’t even know where to begin in response. He rubbed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before continuing.
“Nothing.” He said quietly, “Nothing gives me the right to do what I did to you.” He tried to swallow but found the lump in his throat too large to budge. “Not anything.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What you did to me?” She asked softly.
He pushed air past his lips in an audible ‘whooosh’. “Yes.” he felt like he was confessing before judge and jury.
Then she laughed. A small, light little laugh. And he looked at her, puzzled and a little alarmed. “Oh Grey.” She said, a peculiar expression playing across her face. Was it pity? Sympathy? “You didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want you to do.” She blushed a little but held her chin high. “I’m sorry if it confuses things a little.” She said and cleared her throat. “But you don’t have anything to feel guilty about and you certainly don’t need to apologize.” She shivered a little and all he could do was blink. He became aware, after a moment, that his mouth was agape.
He’d had a lot to drink. He’d been demanding. Rough. He’d, well, he’d even spouted something about ‘asserting his marital rights’, he’d been awful to her. Worse than a dog. A pig. He looked at her completely at a loss for words.
“What?” She demanded, a little defensively. “It isn’t a sin. We’re married.” Her fingers resumed their nervous fiddling with the necklace.
He tried to think, tried to remember through the alcohol induced fog. Had she protested? Had she told him ‘no’? He felt like she had, seemed to remember holding her down, forcing himself on her unwilling body. Violating her. He was very confused. “Maggie, married or not, there’s no excuse for…” He didn’t think he could say it. He’d been roped into this marriage under the threat of being named a rapist and now that he was one he felt filthy, beyond wretched, beyond redemption, really.
She reached up and gathered her thick, dark curls together and bound them with a fat black hair elastic she wore around her wrist. “What time is your mother expecting us?” She asked casually.
“I’m trying to talk with you.” He said irritably.
She raised her eyebrows. “And I’m trying to tell you to forget it before you say something really insulting.” She shot back hotly.
“What?!” She was the most confounding individual.
“Well I resent the implication that you’re dangerously close to making here,” she said venomously “That I’m some frail, put-upon little flower that you ‘had your way with’ or something.” Her cheeks were sucked in and her expression was challenging, unapologetic.
He clicked his tongue. “But- I-“
“I really wouldn’t say anymore if I were you Grey Delaney.” She said tartly. “Because either you think me a weak, spineless little girl or you think I’m a filthy whore and I’m sure you don’t want to accidentally prove yourself a complete fool by insulting me either way.”
His eyes widened so far he had the vague impression that they might pop right out of his skull, like in some cartoon. “I didn’t say—“
“Well if I didn’t enjoy it then I’m a victim, and if I did enjoy it?” She let the question hang there in the air between them a moment, shrewdly observing his astonishment, “ You feel guilty, so you must feel like you denigrated me, hurt me, or defiled me; so if I liked it? What does that make me?”
Incredible, he thought. But he snapped his mouth closed before he dug himself any deeper in the hole he had found himself in.
“Six-thirty.” He replied, to her previous question.
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1 comment:
ha! awesome! =)
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