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tamingthemuseTitle: Apples and Oranges
Fandom: Original
Prompt: 218 - Explosion
Word Count: 505
Rating: G
I saw in her face the aftershock, the second wave of the fight. It hit her a little later than it did me. I started to ride it before the yelling was done, that coldness that crept into my movements, making my fingers shake from a tremor that started in the place between my shoulders. When I feel it move into my arms I start to shut down and absorb the words like a sponge. They can affect me deeply, then.
But Elsie is different. She comes from a family where fighting is a way of life. Mine was a quiet, brewing family. She sees it as something healthy, as expressing herself, as getting through things. I see it as an explosion.
She sits at the kitchen table. She has to clear a place in front of her so she can pull an orange out of the mesh bag and roll it around. Elsie's waiting for me to come around and start talking again. She's chewing on her anger. I think that the way I deal with fighting bothers her more than she'll admit, but we can't talk about fighting - who can? It's worse than talking about sex at the breakfast table. It would probably do us some good to talk about that, too. We both like to think that we're open, that we can talk about anything.
As I watch her I wonder what it would be like to just shrug off these feelings that cripple me, physically. If I could push everything down hard and just stand up and walk over to her, and unclench my vocal cords and ask her not to roll the oranges if she isn't going to peel it and eat it right then. I see myself doing it, in my mind. But moving makes me sick, the thought of it. That's something else that Elsie doesn't understand. When she's angry she moves, like she's bubbling over with it.
"How old are these things?"
She's picked it up and is looking at it, squeezing it in her hand. The banality of the question, after this night, after everything, makes me laugh - a strained sound, like I'm not ready to let it go.
"What?" She doesn't look at me. She puts the orange back in the bag with one hand. It takes her a minute to get it in the flimsy hole.
"A week?" It feels good to form words again. I wipe at my eyes, draw in a deep breath that becomes three small sputtering ones.
Elsie looks at me then. "You want me to juice one for you?"
I shake my head. "C-can't think about eating."
She stands and moves over to the chair where I'm huddled. After a second she slides her fingers into my hair. I'm not sure if I want her touching me, but moving away nauseates me more. After a minute the touch feels like it usually does - inviting, apologetic, forgiving.
"Suit yourself," she says, and goes back to her oranges.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: 218 - Explosion
Word Count: 505
Rating: G
I saw in her face the aftershock, the second wave of the fight. It hit her a little later than it did me. I started to ride it before the yelling was done, that coldness that crept into my movements, making my fingers shake from a tremor that started in the place between my shoulders. When I feel it move into my arms I start to shut down and absorb the words like a sponge. They can affect me deeply, then.
But Elsie is different. She comes from a family where fighting is a way of life. Mine was a quiet, brewing family. She sees it as something healthy, as expressing herself, as getting through things. I see it as an explosion.
She sits at the kitchen table. She has to clear a place in front of her so she can pull an orange out of the mesh bag and roll it around. Elsie's waiting for me to come around and start talking again. She's chewing on her anger. I think that the way I deal with fighting bothers her more than she'll admit, but we can't talk about fighting - who can? It's worse than talking about sex at the breakfast table. It would probably do us some good to talk about that, too. We both like to think that we're open, that we can talk about anything.
As I watch her I wonder what it would be like to just shrug off these feelings that cripple me, physically. If I could push everything down hard and just stand up and walk over to her, and unclench my vocal cords and ask her not to roll the oranges if she isn't going to peel it and eat it right then. I see myself doing it, in my mind. But moving makes me sick, the thought of it. That's something else that Elsie doesn't understand. When she's angry she moves, like she's bubbling over with it.
"How old are these things?"
She's picked it up and is looking at it, squeezing it in her hand. The banality of the question, after this night, after everything, makes me laugh - a strained sound, like I'm not ready to let it go.
"What?" She doesn't look at me. She puts the orange back in the bag with one hand. It takes her a minute to get it in the flimsy hole.
"A week?" It feels good to form words again. I wipe at my eyes, draw in a deep breath that becomes three small sputtering ones.
Elsie looks at me then. "You want me to juice one for you?"
I shake my head. "C-can't think about eating."
She stands and moves over to the chair where I'm huddled. After a second she slides her fingers into my hair. I'm not sure if I want her touching me, but moving away nauseates me more. After a minute the touch feels like it usually does - inviting, apologetic, forgiving.
"Suit yourself," she says, and goes back to her oranges.
