he faintest brush of a chill came in with her, swept on the hems of her skirt and on her boots; her cheeks were a little red, not quite as vivid as the lightest of the silks. She was still smiling, polite and warm, when she set the silks on the table. She smoothed the topmost, and the lacquer on her nails glistened dark against the deep sea green. When she turned to look at him, his hands were still folded in his lap, and he watched the smile fall off her face like a sheaf of cotton cut from the wall.
He wasn’t sure what was underneath it.
He wasn’t sure what he expected her to do. He almost asked, then; he thought it best to get the worst of it out of the way. What do we do? What do I do? Did he come? What’s the plan? He glanced at the silk on the table, but mostly he had eyes for her.
I meant what I said, then, he thought to say. I was wrong, and I know it. She hadn’t sat down opposite him, just yet, and he found that knotted-up thing in his chest thumping hard. Make it like before, he thought he might’ve wanted to ask of her, if he hadn’t already asked too much. Sit, and I’ll – and we’ll never bring it up again –
She came closer, and he halfway wanted to move away. It was the autumn mist he smelled first, still cold in her cheeks and her hands and the rich reddish-brown of her dress; he caught a scent almost like it, floral and deep, like he’d caprised a shift he didn’t know how to read.
There was no flinch or gasp, though he’d not expected one, this time. She sat beside him, and she put her hands on his over the soft thick wool of his coat.
He glanced down at them only once. He didn’t linger long enough for it to make sense, the soft, tapering fingers not quite covering up all the freckles and veins, the cuff of his expensive shirt. He blinked up at her, flicking from one dark eye to the other. He blinked once and then twice and then a third time, and there was no pretending it was just a speck in his eye, not here.
He thought to say it, don’t apologize. The smile stopped him; it was a little lopsided, even with the perfect delicate wings of her kohl, and there were a few little lines around her eyes.
There came a hitch in his breath, quick and sharp as hers’d been slow and shuddering. His lips twitched and he blinked again. “You know it’s me,” spilled out of him, soft and hoarse. He almost smiled, but it crumbled; he felt a tear on his cheek.
He caught the taste of blue shift in the air, stronger even than the cold, strong enough to tilt the lamplight a soft, warm blue for a few moments. Gold threaded and shivered through the mona, and deep brown, and more colors than he had words for.
He wanted to smooth it indectal, but he couldn’t; he wanted to suck it in, to hide it underneath his skin, but he couldn’t do that, either.
“I’m sorry, too.” This time, when he smiled, it was stronger; there was a wry twist to it. You’d better let me say it, too. “For what I didn’t say, until I – did,” he said, “and how I… said it.”
He took one of his hands out from under hers and laid it on top, as he had before.
Her fingers were cold, crisp-cold, more solid than a caprise. “I meant what I said. As long as it took,” he said. “I wanted to know what you thought, and I still do.”
However I feel about it now, he didn’t say. Did he come? he wanted to ask; he couldn’t bring himself to it, just yet, not here. He pressed her hand gently, and some of the color and weight leaked out of his field. He didn’t look anywhere but her face, and he breathed in and out, evenly and deeply.