Flash fic - Inherent Contradictions
May. 18th, 2009 08:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamingaloudOur first date was in a coffee shop.
She hated the taste of coffee, but she drank it anyway. For the caffeine, she said. I always knew she was a liar. She was beautiful when she drank coffee, and she knew it. Of course, you could scarcely call it coffee by the time she got through with it. She steadily added sugar and cream, lightening the concoction by shades until it nearly matched the off-white of the ceramic mug. Her delicate fingers cradled the mug's smooth surface, lips barely touching the rim, taking only the smallest of sips. She seemed more content holding the cup anyway, letting the warmth of the beverage slowly seep into her fingers and palms. When her hands were warm (and the coffee cold), she abruptly threw her head back and tilted the mug, swallowing the lukewarm liquid in three big gulps.
She quickly, efficiently deposited our cups into the used dish tray and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said.
We stepped outside into the autumn wind, hair tousled from the chilly gusts. Her right hand slid into my left one. Her fingers were still slightly warm from the coffee. We walked along the quiet streets, twilight shadows slanting across our path. Her free hand stretched delicately outward, and her fingers brushed against whatever happened to be there. She ran her hands over wooden fences and bicycle seats without prejudice, skimming her fingertips over parking meters and tree trunks. Yet there was a hesitancy to it. Before each new surface, her fingers recoiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she were testing her own reality against these randomly-occurring objects, and she was afraid that she might eventually slip, as if her hand might suddenly move unbidden through the metal or wood instead of across it. Every successful contact seemed a relief for her, yet she could not dwell upon it, not so long as we continued moving.
We passed beside a long stretch of chain-link fence. Her fingers traced the interlocking rings, falling into the rhythm of moving up and down and up along its length. Suddenly, she reached out and laced her fingers through the metal, grabbing the fence firmly. She tugged gently on my hand, pulling me closer to her until our faces were almost touching.
"I can't love you," she whispered. Her eyes were locked on mine. "Not in the way you love me."
"I know," I said. "I think maybe that's why I love you in the first place."
I kissed her then, the only time I'd ever kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, like sugary, milky coffee.
She hated the taste of coffee, but she drank it anyway. For the caffeine, she said. I always knew she was a liar. She was beautiful when she drank coffee, and she knew it. Of course, you could scarcely call it coffee by the time she got through with it. She steadily added sugar and cream, lightening the concoction by shades until it nearly matched the off-white of the ceramic mug. Her delicate fingers cradled the mug's smooth surface, lips barely touching the rim, taking only the smallest of sips. She seemed more content holding the cup anyway, letting the warmth of the beverage slowly seep into her fingers and palms. When her hands were warm (and the coffee cold), she abruptly threw her head back and tilted the mug, swallowing the lukewarm liquid in three big gulps.
She quickly, efficiently deposited our cups into the used dish tray and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said.
We stepped outside into the autumn wind, hair tousled from the chilly gusts. Her right hand slid into my left one. Her fingers were still slightly warm from the coffee. We walked along the quiet streets, twilight shadows slanting across our path. Her free hand stretched delicately outward, and her fingers brushed against whatever happened to be there. She ran her hands over wooden fences and bicycle seats without prejudice, skimming her fingertips over parking meters and tree trunks. Yet there was a hesitancy to it. Before each new surface, her fingers recoiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she were testing her own reality against these randomly-occurring objects, and she was afraid that she might eventually slip, as if her hand might suddenly move unbidden through the metal or wood instead of across it. Every successful contact seemed a relief for her, yet she could not dwell upon it, not so long as we continued moving.
We passed beside a long stretch of chain-link fence. Her fingers traced the interlocking rings, falling into the rhythm of moving up and down and up along its length. Suddenly, she reached out and laced her fingers through the metal, grabbing the fence firmly. She tugged gently on my hand, pulling me closer to her until our faces were almost touching.
"I can't love you," she whispered. Her eyes were locked on mine. "Not in the way you love me."
"I know," I said. "I think maybe that's why I love you in the first place."
I kissed her then, the only time I'd ever kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, like sugary, milky coffee.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 06:30 am (UTC)