Romance 7

She knocked on the door, softly but firmly. Then, she waited: common courtesy, a symbolic act of good will with no value save consideration, like holding a door open for an unburdened stranger.

She twisted the knob. Unlocked, of course. He never locked his door. A bastard decision, hybrid of idealism and apathy.

She gently pushed the door open, creeping inside, tiptoeing in everything but action. A muted room greeted her. A room in perpetual, yet slight disarray. Far from ordered, but never to the excesses of chaos. A few books, a few more papers. A glass (or two; empty, of course).

Soft bars of darkened light sifted through the blinds as the storm outside settled into its rhythm.

Thunder rumbled outside. A would-be-roar, the outside world's cry of protest to the isolation of indoors.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, clank, clank, pitter, patter

"Hello? Anyone home?" she called, still softly, the words more of a warning than an invitation for answer. He was there. (Of course).

She walked, slowly, through the apartment. Inching her way. Crawly, inexorably. She glanced in what few rooms there were as she moved down the hallway, each one a spartan cell, shrines of halfhearted asceticism. Nothing and no one. No huddling form in the corners, no splayed body, strewn on the floor, prostrating itself to some unseen judge. As if he would be so dramatic. No, of course not. Not for the rain.

A crash of lightning sounded outside. But she only heard a muffled snap, hedged by the never-ceasing sounds of raindrops on the roof. A moment of noise in the insistent, persistent beat of sound. Ticking away.

She neared the end of the hall. The last door was slightly ajar, the same dull, natural light not shooting forth like its clear-skies siblings, but almost retreating towards its source, slowly surrendering to the darkness that always threatened.

Slowly, softly she looked in. He was in bed. (Naturally). On his side, knees bent slightly, in an aborted curl. A pillow clutched in one arm, held gently, as if it would break with the slightest assertive insistence, but with a sense of frightful need, a piece of driftwood holding him above water. He didn't look up. He only stared out the window. She couldn't see his face, but she knew the expression. Knew the far-off gaze, the sorrowful eyes, the mournful expression. She knew.

She kicked off her shoes and subtly slid under the sheets, one arm moving around his chest, the other propping her head so her lips hovered right by his ear.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice tender, fragile, barely detectable above the storm.
"Hey," he replied, vulnerability, and the knowledge of it, etched into the syllable.
The rain slipped in through the silence.
"I didn't expect you," he said. (As always).
She smiled, softly.
"I couldn't let you watch the rain alone. I was getting jealous."
His lips rose from their sunken frown, ever so slightly, just hinting at a grin.
"You know, I told you," she said, quietly playful, "to call me when you wanted me."
"Well, you heard me all the same."
"Yes. Well. I suppose I did. Like I said, no one should watch the rain alone."

She placed her head lightly upon the bed, above his, encasing him as they watched the dark rain fall.