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Description
post scriptum

'Do you want to get coffee?' Monica asked, her eyes fixed on the huge screens above them.
Her flight had been delayed twenty minutes, it read. When she pulled her eyes away she looked out the glass walls of the airport atrium. It was deep night, the sky was black, washed of any blue by light pollution.
'Sure,' Farrere said, watching her.
She didn't seem to see anything she looked at.
'Is your brother meeting you at the airport?' he asked quietly.
'Yes,' she now looked out across the cafés and stores. She reached out a hand for her bag handle, but it was further than she'd calculated.
Farrere felt like something of an expert on how to recognise sleep deprivation now. He lifted Monica's bag by its strap onto his shoulder before she could fully comprehend what he was doing.
'Let's get coffee,' he said, starting towards the cafés. She nodded, smiling, falling in step with him.
At the counter, he paid before she could, but she didn't argue.
He watched her stir three sugars into her paper cup.
He wanted to tell her something that might help her. He wondered what might have helped him when his parents had died, but that was a short road to cynicism. This was, after all, the last place he’d seen them, and the first time he’d been here since.
After another minute passed, he wished he could think of anything to say at all, regardless of topic. It was going to be several weeks before he saw Monica again, and when he did, he didn't know what kind of place she'd be in.
Halfway through her coffee, Monica lowered it like she didn't want it anymore.
'Farrere,' she said, lifting her eyes to his. 'I love you,' her voice was faded, like this wasn't the first time she'd told him, and she knew he’d heard it whispered under her words a hundred times. 'But you're not feeling it, are you?'
Sound slowed in his ears, and the only awareness he found was that he didn't want his coffee anymore, either.
'I know you've got stuff going on,' she said, and Farrere heard that the words had been chosen, thought out sometime prior. A time he wished she could have spent sleeping instead of thinking she owed him an explanation. 'But I figure if I can't help, and you can't tell me, and it's... it's running your life, then...' she tipped her head, watching something in the distance behind him. She would be crying by now, if she weren’t so tired and lost; knowing this pushed Farrere’s heart further into his stomach.
'I don't deserve to have you do this for me,' he said quietly.
His words drove into her, pinching blood into her cheeks like ice.
If he tried to spare her feelings with half-truths now, he didn't think he'd ever sleep for guilt again.
'I should've said something sooner,' the excuses surfaced against his will. 'But things are so... things are so terrible for you at the moment.'
She blinked, her eyes glazing.
'It's not a moment,' he corrected, his voice shaking. 'It's going to last a long time. I don't... I just want to help you through it. I don't...'
Want to hurt you.
It became too late for that sentiment the moment he’d let her kiss him.
'I know I'm not right for you,' he said. 'But I wish I was.'
He saw her mind tick over; she swiped tears from her eyes before they fell, struggling to look at him.
'I don't know what that means, Farrere,' she closed her eyes, escaping him.
It means I've used you. For friendship and approval. For security. You hid me from myself.
'Monnie, I'd do anything to help you. But there are some things I can't... Some things I need to work out. I'm not–’ his throat locked, his heart nearly choking him. ‘I’m not going to get better, though.'
Her eyes opened, her pupils swollen with fear.
'I'm not sick,' he said quickly, hating himself.
Aren’t you?
He faltered. This wasn’t going to kill him – but the voice rose again:
Won’t it?
She looked at him, silent, several tears stealing down her cheeks unchecked.
'Why won't you get better?'
He swallowed hard. 'I can't,' he said. 'It's something I have to live with.'
If you call this living.
'Why can't I help you?'
'I wish you could.'
What was the point in the truth, when it had come this late? Why did his mistakes and his suffering have to drag her down with him?
She withheld a sob, drawing in a breath.
'Why can't you tell me?'
There was so much pain in her voice it didn't sound like hers anymore.
What was the truth to give this time?
He didn't understand why he couldn't just tell her. Why did this destroy him, and not others?
Why did he have to be here, in the last place he'd seen his parents alive, trying to sort through himself like every facet he reached for was broken glass. He had the ripped skin on his wrist to prove it.
'I'm not ready,' he murmured, and saying it made it so. He shrunk inward, terrified.
He'd nearly said it, God, what if he had?
Monnie leaned over the table, rubbing her thumb under eyes, wiping away mascara.
'Ok,' she said, her voice weak. 'But I get to know when you are.'
'Yes,' he made the promise, not wanting to anticipate the ramifications.
'But I'm not holding out for that,' she said flatly. 'Drawing this out is clearly not what either of us need. Farrere, can you still work with me?'
She'd found the steeliness she saved for facing clients that frightened her.
'Yes, I can, but if you want to go, I'll get Powell to be a reference for you.'
'I want to try and stay.'
He nearly pulled his mouth into a smile.
'Ok,' he said softly.
She looked at him, her lips hard and her makeup smudged. Her eyes were awash with self-preservation.
'Do you... want me to contact you while you're away?' he asked.
'I'd like to say no, but I think there will probably be times when I need to talk to you,' she said. She looked at her abandoned coffee. 'If that's ok with you.'
'It's ok with me,' he found somewhere to look, too, watching a couple taking turns to embrace a teenager. Their child, Farrere thought. Nothing could have looked more different to the farewell he’d given his parents.
'I think I'll check in now,' Monica pushed loose hair off her face, her eyes heavy-lidded and exhausted.
'Monnie, I'm sorry.'
He hadn't wanted to let himself say it, understanding rationally there was no point, but the child in his eyeline had summoned the one in his past and pushed the words up his throat.
'I know you are,' she said without looking at him. 'I'm sorry, too.'
From the check-in counter, he watched her walk away through the airport without looking back, and something occurred to him.
She had been his last chance to fall for a woman.
It would have almost seemed funny, had the fear this realisation caused not been so distinct. She’d taken the final pieces of his shelter with her, and exposure felt numbing. He really didn’t think he deserved anything less.
He searched for a final sight of her in the distance, knowing he wouldn’t find her.
There was tinsel on the check-in counters, and the strand closest to him sported an angel.
Farrere sighed, rubbing his wrist through his coat.
He hoped Monnie would be ok, in the end, and if there had ever been a time when he hoped the same for himself, he wanted the memory gutted. He turned and crossed the floor, wondering when the walls would turn to clockwork and the water would start rising.
Outside, shivering, and halfway through a cigarette that did nothing, he realised it was the first time in a long time he would have rather been asleep.

Description
post scriptum

'Do you want to get coffee?' Monica asked, her eyes fixed on the huge screens above them.
Her flight had been delayed twenty minutes, it read. When she pulled her eyes away she looked out the glass walls of the airport atrium. It was deep night, the sky was black, washed of any blue by light pollution.
'Sure,' Farrere said, watching her.
She didn't seem to see anything she looked at.
'Is your brother meeting you at the airport?' he asked quietly.
'Yes,' she now looked out across the cafés and stores. She reached out a hand for her bag handle, but it was further than she'd calculated.
Farrere felt like something of an expert on how to recognise sleep deprivation now. He lifted Monica's bag by its strap onto his shoulder before she could fully comprehend what he was doing.
'Let's get coffee,' he said, starting towards the cafés. She nodded, smiling, falling in step with him.
At the counter, he paid before she could, but she didn't argue.
He watched her stir three sugars into her paper cup.
He wanted to tell her something that might help her. He wondered what might have helped him when his parents had died, but that was a short road to cynicism. This was, after all, the last place he’d seen them, and the first time he’d been here since.
After another minute passed, he wished he could think of anything to say at all, regardless of topic. It was going to be several weeks before he saw Monica again, and when he did, he didn't know what kind of place she'd be in.
Halfway through her coffee, Monica lowered it like she didn't want it anymore.
'Farrere,' she said, lifting her eyes to his. 'I love you,' her voice was faded, like this wasn't the first time she'd told him, and she knew he’d heard it whispered under her words a hundred times. 'But you're not feeling it, are you?'
Sound slowed in his ears, and the only awareness he found was that he didn't want his coffee anymore, either.
'I know you've got stuff going on,' she said, and Farrere heard that the words had been chosen, thought out sometime prior. A time he wished she could have spent sleeping instead of thinking she owed him an explanation. 'But I figure if I can't help, and you can't tell me, and it's... it's running your life, then...' she tipped her head, watching something in the distance behind him. She would be crying by now, if she weren’t so tired and lost; knowing this pushed Farrere’s heart further into his stomach.
'I don't deserve to have you do this for me,' he said quietly.
His words drove into her, pinching blood into her cheeks like ice.
If he tried to spare her feelings with half-truths now, he didn't think he'd ever sleep for guilt again.
'I should've said something sooner,' the excuses surfaced against his will. 'But things are so... things are so terrible for you at the moment.'
She blinked, her eyes glazing.
'It's not a moment,' he corrected, his voice shaking. 'It's going to last a long time. I don't... I just want to help you through it. I don't...'
Want to hurt you.
It became too late for that sentiment the moment he’d let her kiss him.
'I know I'm not right for you,' he said. 'But I wish I was.'
He saw her mind tick over; she swiped tears from her eyes before they fell, struggling to look at him.
'I don't know what that means, Farrere,' she closed her eyes, escaping him.
It means I've used you. For friendship and approval. For security. You hid me from myself.
'Monnie, I'd do anything to help you. But there are some things I can't... Some things I need to work out. I'm not–’ his throat locked, his heart nearly choking him. ‘I’m not going to get better, though.'
Her eyes opened, her pupils swollen with fear.
'I'm not sick,' he said quickly, hating himself.
Aren’t you?
He faltered. This wasn’t going to kill him – but the voice rose again:
Won’t it?
She looked at him, silent, several tears stealing down her cheeks unchecked.
'Why won't you get better?'
He swallowed hard. 'I can't,' he said. 'It's something I have to live with.'
If you call this living.
'Why can't I help you?'
'I wish you could.'
What was the point in the truth, when it had come this late? Why did his mistakes and his suffering have to drag her down with him?
She withheld a sob, drawing in a breath.
'Why can't you tell me?'
There was so much pain in her voice it didn't sound like hers anymore.
What was the truth to give this time?
He didn't understand why he couldn't just tell her. Why did this destroy him, and not others?
Why did he have to be here, in the last place he'd seen his parents alive, trying to sort through himself like every facet he reached for was broken glass. He had the ripped skin on his wrist to prove it.
'I'm not ready,' he murmured, and saying it made it so. He shrunk inward, terrified.
He'd nearly said it, God, what if he had?
Monnie leaned over the table, rubbing her thumb under eyes, wiping away mascara.
'Ok,' she said, her voice weak. 'But I get to know when you are.'
'Yes,' he made the promise, not wanting to anticipate the ramifications.
'But I'm not holding out for that,' she said flatly. 'Drawing this out is clearly not what either of us need. Farrere, can you still work with me?'
She'd found the steeliness she saved for facing clients that frightened her.
'Yes, I can, but if you want to go, I'll get Powell to be a reference for you.'
'I want to try and stay.'
He nearly pulled his mouth into a smile.
'Ok,' he said softly.
She looked at him, her lips hard and her makeup smudged. Her eyes were awash with self-preservation.
'Do you... want me to contact you while you're away?' he asked.
'I'd like to say no, but I think there will probably be times when I need to talk to you,' she said. She looked at her abandoned coffee. 'If that's ok with you.'
'It's ok with me,' he found somewhere to look, too, watching a couple taking turns to embrace a teenager. Their child, Farrere thought. Nothing could have looked more different to the farewell he’d given his parents.
'I think I'll check in now,' Monica pushed loose hair off her face, her eyes heavy-lidded and exhausted.
'Monnie, I'm sorry.'
He hadn't wanted to let himself say it, understanding rationally there was no point, but the child in his eyeline had summoned the one in his past and pushed the words up his throat.
'I know you are,' she said without looking at him. 'I'm sorry, too.'
From the check-in counter, he watched her walk away through the airport without looking back, and something occurred to him.
She had been his last chance to fall for a woman.
It would have almost seemed funny, had the fear this realisation caused not been so distinct. She’d taken the final pieces of his shelter with her, and exposure felt numbing. He really didn’t think he deserved anything less.
He searched for a final sight of her in the distance, knowing he wouldn’t find her.
There was tinsel on the check-in counters, and the strand closest to him sported an angel.
Farrere sighed, rubbing his wrist through his coat.
He hoped Monnie would be ok, in the end, and if there had ever been a time when he hoped the same for himself, he wanted the memory gutted. He turned and crossed the floor, wondering when the walls would turn to clockwork and the water would start rising.
Outside, shivering, and halfway through a cigarette that did nothing, he realised it was the first time in a long time he would have rather been asleep.