Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Seven: Besotted

"I can start over. Or you could bat your pretty eyes at another designer. Or turn your fiance loose on the world of them... which would probably result in you having only to choose between a thousand different beautiful dresses, ridiculously last minute or not..."

"Or I could wear this one, the one that I asked you for, and that you made for me, and that I think is absolutely perfect."

"You don't have to say that, Claire. You won't hurt my feelings if you don't–"

"Do I not look pretty?"

"I don't need to actually roll my eyes at that, right?"

"No. Just like I shouldn't need to tell you how perfect it is for me." 

"You're sure you want something so simple? That simple is really perfect for you? For that day?"

"I have enough chaos in my life, Genevieve. And enough complicated. I promise you, simple is perfect. And besides... I don't need a dress to make me a beautiful bride. I'll be that all by myself, and to Jaimin, more than for any other reason, simply because I want to be."




                                                                                 ~




"Where are you?"

I'm surprised he waited so long. I've been out of his sight for almost two hours. "Somewhere where I can't be spied on."

"Very funny, Claire."

"Is it? Because I wasn't going for funny, merely true."

"Do I need to ask you again? Or why you've been wherever you are for two hours?"

No... "I'm standing in front of a mirror. And I shouldn't really need to explain to you how I could lose track of time doing that..."

"Well, aren't we arrogant today?"

"Yes we are. Instead of only just you, like every other day."

"Tell me where you are, Claire, so that I can arrogantly come and pay for whatever you're wearing that has kept me from seeing you for so long."

"Sorry, no can do."

"You want to try again?"

"No."

"If you think that was a request–"

"I don't, but my answer is still the same, and unchangeable, so–"

"Claire."

"Hmm?"

"Don't let your current state of besotted–and unseen by me–make you too brave. You'll be in my sight–and my reach–eventually." 

"My favorite things to be in."

And that I'd like to keep that way. Which I won't do–based on the sound of his jaw clenching (yes, I do think I heard it), and his through-his-nose breath... I wonder if fire shot out of his nostrils?–if I don't give him at least a hint of why I'm hiding from him. "And I really meant that, but, brave or not, I know you're not amused, so... I'm standing in front of a mirror at Genevieve's, where you are NOT invited to or welcome to join me at, because of what I'm wearing, or, arrogantly or not, going to be allowed to pay for, just like I wasn't, because it's a gift."

"You're wearing your dress? The dress? That–"

"Yes."

"And feeling brave? And so beautiful that you're besotted?"

"Yes."

"I'd give anything to see that. ANYTHING, Claire."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I don't mean the dress, Claire."

Of course he doesn't. "You mean my face." 

"Please come back where I can see it. Please, Claire."

"Okay." Beautiful.



                                                                                ~





"What was it you called me on the phone? Besotted?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You should look in a mirror, Mr. Guillory." Because if ever someone was besotted...

"I'd have to look away from you to do that."

"And you don't want to do that?"

"No. NEVER."

"Okay. I didn't really want you to anyway."

And don't move so he doesn't have to.

I didn't make him wait to see what he wanted, or have to do it from afar or overhead. I came straight to the restaurant when I left Genevieve's. Straight to him, just like I'll walk the next time I put on that simply perfect dress, that, though his eyes can't see, his mind is on. "You really liked it? The dress?"

"I did," I say, and nod my head.

"That makes me very happy, Claire," he says before I can continue.

And I know that it does, but I still want to tell him why I liked it so much. And make him happier than he already is. "But not because it's pretty or beautiful, though it certainly is."

"Not because it is," he repeats, his purely beautiful anticipation of the 'real' reason swallowing me whole.

"No, not," I answer, and shake my head this time. "Because no dress, no matter how, could be as beautiful as the knowledge of what I'll wear it for, and what I'll be when I take it off."

And he understands... heard me loud and clear... and couldn't be happier... but he's still him. "When WHO takes it off, Claire?"

"If only that was a simple question... with a simple answer..."

"IT IS."

"Says the man who isn't."

"And who's waiting for an answer. The ONLY one I'll accept from your–may God help it to be–smart mouth."

"Don't misinterpret my hesitance to answer you, my love, with the YOU I know you're waiting for. I merely wanted to be specific, and found that that wasn't a simple thing."

"Do you hear that cracking sound, Claire?"

"No. But it's often hard to hear things over my thumping and pounding heart."

"Interesting choice of words... thumping... and pounding..."

"Again, says YOU."

"Is that your answer, Claire?"

"YOU? Of course it is. I just wasn't sure which one of you I'd be with when it was time for my dress to come off."

"Would you like to make a request?" he asks, understanding now completely my previous 'hesitation' to answer him. "For a particular me?"

"No, I love them all. And it will be my honor to be undressed by any one of them. You..."

He looks at me for a long moment, and then his cocky passes. Because, I think, a different him wants to be heard. And felt by me... "The honor will be all ours, Claire."




                                                                               ~




I'm just hanging up my phone when Jaimin lets himself into my office. Himself and his possessiveness. "Who were you talking to for the last hour? Who was making you smile for most of?"

"You know, Jaimin, if I wasn't so sure and understanding of the way you love me, I might think you didn't trust me."

"But since you are..."

"The Bouchards. And they say hello."

"Oh. Well, I hope you said hello back."

"I did."

"So, how are they?"

"They're good. Excited for the wedding. And thinking about, and if we needed anything."

"And do we?"

"No. We already have everything."

"I certainly do."

"So do I."

"And you told them that?"

"Yes."

"For an hour?"

"Well, it was a consolidated version. Because to truly tell them everything I have... well, that would have taken much longer than an hour. And probably forever, and that–"

"Is MINE. And part of that everything I have."

"And that I don't need help giving to you."



                                                                              ~



"Helllllo, GORGEOUS!"

Alaina is hanging out in the gallery with Emilie and I today, and I'm shocked at her greeting to a someone who entered it, until I turn around and see who the someone is.

"Hello, young Guillory girl," Loring replies with a Behave yourself tone. 

That the young Guillory girl pretends not to hear. "I'm old enough."

He doesn't respond to that, merely shakes his head at her, and then looks at me. "Got a minute?"

"For you, of course."

"I have all day," Alaina calls out boldly, and I suddenly am disappointed that my 'surveillance' doesn't include sound. Because then she'd have already ratted her naughty self out to her brother and I wouldn't have to do it. 

"She's something else," Loring says as soon as we're behind my closed office door.

"Yeah, and Jaimin would kill her if he knew what she was trying to be." Maybe I shouldn't tell him...

"Well, she'll never be it, so..."

"That's because you're a good man," I tell him. "Babe–and 'baby' magnet–or not."

"Did you just call me a babe, Claire?"

"I may see you with sisterly eyes, Loring, but I still see you. And why Alaina has a crush."

"Now I'm flattered."

"As you should be. So, what's up?"

"Actually, it's what's going to go down. Or who, rather."

If he were Jaimin, I might run with such a statement, but he's definitely not, and would never talk to me in such a way. "Huh? You lost me."

"I was just thinking about your upcoming walk down an aisle... or through a flower field, at least... and that maybe you needed an escort. And I just wanted to tell you that if you do, I'd be happy to do it. For you."

"You would?"

"Of course I would."

"I love you for that."

"You don't have to love me for it, Claire, I just wanted you to know that you didn't have to do it alone. Not that I'd be your first choice or anything... or one at all..."

"Shush. You'd be a perfect choice. And I do love you."

"And think I'm a babe."

"With what I now know about you, definitely."

"What you now know about me? Has Gennie been telling you things?"

"Maybe."

"I should want to leave now, shouldn't I?"

"No. Not unless it's to go see her."

"She does need to be silenced..."

"What you do when you get to her is your business."

"Until she tells you about it?"

"Don't be embarrassed, Loring. Or mad at her. I said you were a good man... and I always knew that.. 

"Talking to Gennie only made me know it more. And how perfect of a choice you are... for a lot of things."



                                                                               ~



"The things you do right in front of my eyes..."

"I do because I have nothing to hide. Not that I could hide anything from you... you know, since your eyes are EVERYWHERE..."

"Are you going to make me ask you?"

"You mean why I gave my friend a big hug and a kiss?"

"And about a thousand smiles, yes."

"Well, the smiles–that you so ridiculously exaggerated the number of–were because he's, while also my friend, a truly good man. Which, believe me, you should share my appreciation for. And–"

"Give me a reason to."

"You mean besides the fact that he's my friend?"

"YES."

"And yours?"

"Claire."

"Well, I've never known much about his 'romantic' side, for lack of a better description, but, according to Genevieve, he's quite the guy. And she's ridiculously happy, so–"

"And while I'm happy for your friend, Claire, since you clearly are, I don't see how that necessarily warrants my deeper appreciation for or of your other."

"You know your sister is beautiful, right?"

"I'm aware, yes. Though not at all about what that has to do with our current conversation."

"Most men would be incredibly flattered by attentions from her, wouldn't you agree? And probably very tempted by, if she were to direct them at them."

"She's not directing her attentions at anyone."

"That you're aware of. Or saw clearly, perhaps, when you witnessed their unmistakable directing before what else you witnessed."

"Stop talking in circles, Claire."

"Your beautiful little sister has a crush. That I think would be dangerous if on perhaps anyone but who it is on."

"Are you telling me that Alaina has directed her attentions at Loring?"

"Yes. And quite boldly, actually. Hence the 'would be dangerous' if he wasn't the man that he is."

"He told you this?"

"Once, yes... after the first time he met her... but, no, she did this time. Because she threw them at him right in front of me."

"This happened today?"

"Yes."

"And there was no misinterpreting it?"

"No, definitely not. I wouldn't be telling you if there was. Or if I wasn't worried about her someday in the future throwing them at a less rubber target."

"Rubber?"

"Of course rubber, Jaimin. Loring would never even entertain such a thought, your young sister or not, let alone reach out to catch anything beyond one. No matter how beautiful and boldly trying to tempt him it was."

"Trying and failing."

"He called her a little girl, Jaimin. Ultimately. And not in any way that she should have misinterpreted or not heard."

"She heard him or she didn't?"

"Oh, she heard him, she just put her own spin on what she heard."

"And that was?"

"She told him she was 'old enough'."

"I'm glad she thinks so..." he says, and kisses the top of my head before turning and walking out the door.

And, for once, I'm glad to see him walking away from me. And for more than the view his doing so provided me. Because before I saw that, I saw his eyes. 

And the storm brewing in them that has nothing to do with me. FOR ONCE.

Sorry, Alaina... sort of.



                                                                              ~

I never gave much thought to my walk to Jaimin...

But after the Bouchards' call and Loring's visit, both because they had...

Well, I can't get it off of my mind. And when Aricin comes to see me a couple of days later, I know it's exactly what's on his. Since his youngest child is still alive... 

"What is that wonderful smell?" I ask, just as he pulls back from his hello kiss to my cheek.

"Me, definitely," he says, and then winks at me as he sets the wonderful smelling package on my desk.

"How did you know I hadn't eaten lunch yet?"

"I checked with your personal chef. Before I told him you were going to fire him right after lunch."

"You didn't happen to record that conversation, did you?"

"No, sorry. If you want to see him disgustingly arrogant today, you'll have to give it to yourself."

I laugh and watch him unwrap his gift for me, the anticipation of it dancing in my stomach along with the butterflies his greatest always gives me.

And the ones his visit, and the reason for it, another wonderful to me, have sent fluttering. "So, I know my wife is driving you crazy with wedding talk... and that I promised to keep as tight a rein as I could on that...

"But I'd like to talk to you about a part of it. Would that be alright?"

"Of course."

"I know that I'm Jaimin's father, not yours, and that I'm in every way gaining something by you marrying my son, and in no way losing anything or having to let go of or give away...

"But if you need or want someone to do that... give you away... it would be my humble honor to do so. And I promise not a selfish."

"I don't think you could ever be capable of selfish."

"If you knew how truly happy I am that you're marrying my son, you might not think that."

"Or I'd know with absolute certainty that I was right to."

"You're a gift, Claire. To him and this family. Don't ever think any of us sees you as anything different."

"I'm pretty sure your daughter would disagree with that after the other day."

"My daughter is one wrong word away from being sent to a convent. And she knows it. And is too fashion-concerned, at the least, to dare even open her mouth, let alone let anything come out of it."

"Still not talking to anyone, huh?"

"No, and if it goes on much longer, I'm going to wonder if Jaimin actually removed her tongue."

"I didn't see any blood anywhere, if it helps ease your mind."

He smiles at me, but then his expression turns serious again. "You truly are a gift, Claire. To all of us."

"Thank you for thinking that. Too... 

"Because I know that that's how he sees me... 

"And it's for that reason that I have to decline your wonderful offer. That, please know, means the world to me. I'm–"

"You don't have to explain, Claire. I just wanted to make the offer."

"But I'd like to, Aricin. I'd like you to understand why I can't accept it."

"Then I'm all ears."

"Though he does see me as a gift... I think he also sometimes sees me as one that he's taken. Given to himself...

"And I don't want him to see me that way. And especially not when I'm his wife. 

"And I think the best way I can make him see me in another... and the every purely his way that he should...

"Is by me taking that walk alone. Taking myself to him. With no one guiding or leading me. And no one pulling or pushing me–God knows he can interpret things in strange and irrational ways... 

"No one but him, simply because he is, and everything I want and love and need."

"That is indeed a gift, Claire. And one he'll understand, without a doubt, that he's being given."

"I hope so."

"No, Claire... you know so. Just like I do that my son is the luckiest man on earth, because he found the most selfless woman on it to love him."



                                                                               ~




"Pinch me," I say, just as Jaimin puts my refilled glass of wine in my hand and sits down next to me on our couch.

"And why would I do that?"

"So I'll know if I'm dreaming."

"If you want some kind of proof from me that you're not, I can think of much better ways to give it to you than pinching you, Claire."

"I was actually going to say nevermind, because if I am dreaming, I don't want to be woken up... but now uhhh..." Now I'm toast because he has my ponytail in his hand and his lips have found the back of my neck beneath it. 

"Nevermind the nevermind?" he asks, his words caressing my just kissed–and toasted–skin.

"Yeah, that. Definitely that..."

"As you wish," he generously whispers, as his fingers pull lazily through my just released by him hair. "But tell me, why was it that you thought you were dreaming in the first place?" 

"Ummmmm..."

He chuckles at my incoherence, and, though he asked me a question, he does–or stops doing–nothing so that I can regain enough brain to mouth function to answer it.

But he's the answer, and eventually my wanting him to know that is strong enough to make my mouth move with clarity. "Because it's nowhere near midnight and you're here with me."

Normally it would be a strange thing to say, and a not in any way dreamlike reality to question, but the last week, almost two, actually, has been insanely chaotic for him at Jouissance. Not one, but two, of his most valuable and reliable chefs have been gone due to serious illness or injury, and he's had to take up the slack. There were many nights I came home alone after dinner, to spend the entireties of them the same. 

I spent most of that solitary time in my studio, where he often found me still, painting the hours without him away, and trying to make them feel like merely minutes, but a couple of nights he came home so late that I was already asleep, no matter how hard I'd tried to stay awake. Twice I fell asleep on the couch in his office, having stayed just to be close to him, my days of needing space seemingly ones of another life, and not the one I'm living, and want to live as many moments of with him next to me or in front of.

"I should have cameras installed in your kitchen. Then I could watch you every second that you're not here."

"Is that right?" he says with a half smirk, half smile, and pulls me onto his lap.

I let him take the glass of wine from my hand once I'm situated, and he sets it on the table beside him, grasping both of mine in his once he has. "Yes, and only fair, I'd say."

"Just in my kitchen?" he asks, his eyes gazing tenderly at me as his thumbs graze the same over my skin.

"Yes, since that's where you spend most of your time. Well, when you're not schmoozing your indulged guests."

"I don't schmooze."

"Now, now, no fibbing. I've seen you."

"No, you've been schmoozed by me. And that was because you're an exception. My only. Which I hope I don't actually have to remind you of the fact of."

"You don't."

"You do know, don't you, Claire?"

"Know what?"

"That I don't schmooze. Or anything else."

"Yes, I was just kidding..."

"And that if I'm not here with you, I'm in that kitchen, and nowhere else."

"Of course I do."

"And that if you could see me, every second that I'm away from you, you'd see me working." 

"Jaimin, I was kidding. And only, and certainly not insinuating that you've been, or accusing you of, doing anything else."

"I didn't say you were accusing me of anything, Claire. But I know things have been crazy, and different the last couple of weeks, and I just–"

"It never even entered my mind. And never would, no matter how late you came home."

"I hope not."

"Do I need to remind you of how you love me?"

"Never."

"So, just that I  know how it is? And how much?" 

"No, not that either... but maybe you should pinch me."

"You're not dreaming, I promise."

"I'd still like proof."

I pinch him instead of suggesting a better way, like he did, and like I'm sure he thought I'd do, and he laughs.

"You deserved that," I tell him, and it brings a sexy and all-consuming smirk to his lips. 

Before they form the question I've waited all day to hear. "And you deserve the very BEST of everything... so, tell me, sweetheart... How was your lunch today?"

Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Six: More Than Enough

"Don't make light of the way I love you, Claire."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not, Jaimin. I'm trying to–"

"You're trying to get your way, but–"

"I swear I'm doing it honestly."

"You wouldn't go all day without eating."

"Not usually, no... but I did. Today."

"Claire, if you're–"

"I'm hungry." And you know you can't ignore that. Or "And cold."

And he doesn't for a single second, the cold part, anyway, and in less than, has his coat off and is wrapping it around me, and with his arm around it, is leading me up the walk and through the front door.

And once we're behind it, but only just, he looks at me. Hard. Searching, I know, for truth. And since I know he'll find it, I stand motionless and wait.

It takes only seconds for him to find it, and though it angers and annoys him that it existed for him to, he doesn't waste so much as a breath on it. "Is there anything here that I could turn into any semblance of a meal for you? Or even that you were going to attempt to not do for yourself?"

At least he still has his sense of humor. But then again, he was simply stating my never questionable truth... as he interprets it. I don't happen to think there's anything wrong with cheese sandwiches, and have, in fact, often considered them meals.

Of course, that was before I had my own personal chef–who would never–at my beck and call. "I didn't bring any bread and cheese, if that's what you were indirectly asking. I didn't bring anything, because I wasn't planning to... well, I didn't plan this at all." This, that I don't want to focus on again yet, since I finally got him to take his off of it.  "There's probably some spaghetti in there, though. In the kitchen, I mean. And, yes, the kind that comes in a box. And probably a jar or two of the sauce you–"

"Will NEVER let touch your mouth."

I love you... "But there isn't anything else. And I'm hungry. And you don't want to take me home..."

"That's not true, Claire," he says simply.

And I don't need him to say more than that. I don't need him to clarify which part of what I said isn't, even though he turned and walked right back out the door to, I have no doubt, prove to me what else might not be.

Which is why I stay where I am. In the exact place where he left me. And do so without so much as a whisper of smothering panic. Because I know he'll come right back. And would never not. He'd feed me that jar of sauce before he'd leave me, hungry or not.

But he meant what he said, and comes back quickly just like I knew he would. And with a box of his own, that, after turning the lock on the door, and pausing briefly to look at my still-wet canvas, he carries straight into the kitchen.

And this time I follow him.

Because after what he just saw, I don't want him out of my sight. Or hearing distance of my mouth.

Which will have to wait to try to explain, because his is moving. "Not even any flour, Claire?"

"Flour?"

"Yes, flour."

"No... I wouldn't even know what to do with flour. Is it something important?"

"It is to someone who was determined not to cook you pasta that came out of a box."

"Oh." I eye the tomatoes he just pulled from the one he carried in and try a smile. "I promise not to tell anyone, especially since it's my fault that you have no choice. If you're willing, that is... to set aside your chefly pride to prevent me from starving."

"You could have not starved a lot more decadently if you'd have–"

"I know," I say before he can finish. "I put the clouds over my own head today."

"Because I put something over it."

I nod, too stunned by his admittance, though vague, to speak. And by his surrender of that pride I mentioned, as he pulls the box of spaghetti from the open and mostly empty cupboard and lays it on the counter with a pained and heavy sigh. Before he finally nods in return and then turns away from me, finding a large pot in a lower cupboard and carrying it to the sink.

He doesn't turn to look at me when he speaks again. "Don't worry, I'll feed you without you having to talk to me. Or be close to. You can go back to your painting. Unless you're afraid to turn your back on me."

Oh, Jaimin... "I'm not afraid to do that," I tell him, and move closer to him. Closer and closer until I'm right behind him, and close enough to touch. I keep my hands on his coat that's still around me, and wrap it tighter around, as if it were his arms and not just what kept them warm before it made me, and rest my head against his back. "I'm only afraid of how you might interpret it if I did. If I was ever stupid enough to do such a stupid thing."

He doesn't say anything, and I feel the struggle that his silence is for him in his body. In its stillness but not. And when he finally moves, I think he's going to turn around and pull me into his arms that I'm so desperately craving. And so painfully aching for...

But desperate and painful are all I get to feel, because he only reaches forward to turn on the tap in front of him.

The kitchen is quiet but for the sound of the water filling the pot. And it bothers me, that deafening silence, because I know how much it bothers him, but I don't know what to break it with. What to try again to.

We have a lot of things to talk about. Things that paint us both in an unflattering light. And a just plain wrong. But at this moment, I'm not sure that shining an even brighter light on any of it is a good idea, or one that will help us.

Once full, he moves away from me and carries the pot to the stove, still without a word, and without so much as a glance at me before or after, and I can't bear it anymore. Being so near to him, so within his line of sight, and not hearing or feeling or seeing myself in it.

"I like it when you watch me," I say. "When you can't take or keep your eyes off of me. And when you don't want to. And choose not to...

"I like it so much better than this."

"You came here because I was watching you, Claire," he says to that, finally breaking his silence. "And because you didn't like it."

He wasn't so selfish as to withhold his eyes from me as he spoke that truth I can't argue, but now that they're on me just the way I wanted them, I don't know what to do with them.

Or exactly what to say to him. "I know that looking at me isn't enough. That seeing me in front of you isn't, no matter how real and absolutely belonging to you I am. Or how needing of you I am..."

"Needing of me because you're hungry, you mean."

"No... not because of that," I say. And then add "Not only, not ever only" when those eyes I love so much challenge me to tell the absolute truth.

And he doesn't say anything to that so much more I tried to give him, and only stares at me, telling me that it wasn't enough.

"We're getting married here," I say now, and tear my eyes from his to look out the window to the not in bloom yet field beyond it. "Right out there...

"And what I need... is for us to do that purely. And honestly. Unless, of course, you don't want that anymore. Or me..."

"Is that what you believe, Claire? That I don't? Or wouldn't, just that easily?"

"No."

"Yet you said it. Made it a real and ridiculous possibility by speaking it out loud."

"You've told me many times never to turn myself off to you. I was merely following your orders, in a purely honest way, and letting you hear everything, even if what was in my stupid head was wrong or ridiculous in every."

"Your head isn't stupid, Claire, and I'd never call it, or you, that."

"No, I know you wouldn't. But, Jaimin, doing what you did... above it and behind my back... told me that you think I am."

"If that's what you heard, then there's something wrong with your ears."

"No, I don't think that there is. I think there's something wrong with your mouth."

"Well, at least you're finally willing to admit that."

"You should have told me, Jaimin. And given mine the chance to tell you no. Or say anything at all."

"So should you have today."

"You're absolutely right about that. I should have. And I admit that whole–and broken–heartedly. And sorrowfully. But I shouldn't have to. Admit or feel any of those things... because you shouldn't have given me a reason to."

"I'm not sorry that I installed the cameras, Claire. I can't feel sorry for needing to see you, always, in one perfect and beautiful piece."

"You know that I'm not perfect, Jaimin. You even admitted it just a minute ago... that there's something wrong with me... with my ears...

"And you've never really held back from me that you thought there was something wrong with my head, whatever terminology either of us use or used, now or ever, to describe it.

"And lets not forget about my mouth... that–"

"Should have told me how you felt."

"Yes, should have. Should have and didn't. Just like yours should have but didn't tell me what you'd done. Or were planning to before you had."

"So that yours could tell me no. Pointlessly, I might add, because I'd have still done it. And, if I had already, not have undone it."

I know that, but still... "But not having had the chance, not having been given one by you, to say anything, or feel about what you'd done or would have done anyway, even if you'd told me first... Jaimin, you didn't give my head or my heart or my ears any chance at all to think or feel or hear anything real or right, or even not ridiculous. You left me all alone, while not at all, to interpret it my own way. And you know me... far too well to have risked that happening. And happening to us."

"And you know me, Claire... far too well, too, unfortunately for you, and well enough that you should have stayed and fought."

"You mean pointlessly?" I ask him.

But it doesn't reach his ears in the way that I meant it, or meant for it to. "Staying would have been pointless? I see."

"No, Jaimin..."

"I never thought a day would come when I'd wish you would lie to me, Claire... but one has. It's here..."

"Fight, Jaimin. Not stay... FIGHT. It would have been pointless for me to fight with you about it, not stay to. Knowing you is knowing that. And that's all I was saying. I say enough stupid things on my own, don't try to help me. Please, don't ever do that."

He closes his eyes and it takes the air from my lungs. "Or that. Please, more than anything else you could ever do, not that...

"You'll break me, Jaimin. You'll–"

"Never do that, Claire," he says in a voice broken with understanding. And with guiltless guilt. "And what I did was just another way of me not."

"As you interpret it."

"Yes, as I do. And desperately want you to."



                                                                                ~




He sits with me as I eat, but that's all he does. Well, that, and cringe every time I take a bite. Which is so unnecessary...

Because the pasta may have come from a box, but what he did with it was done with love. And his brilliance, of course.

"I like it, so stop making that face."

"You're hardly a tough critic, Claire."

"You want critique? Because I can give it... because it's by no means perfect."

"Then by all means critique away."

"There's something wrong with it. Something... missing."

"Yeah, it's called freshness."

"No... it's called YOU."

"It's the same thing."

"No it's not. Because your interpretation of my critique is wrong."

"I assure you it isn't."

"There's nothing wrong with the way it tastes, Jaimin, though I promise you my tongue knows the difference between it and your fresh. Pasta, I mean, before you interpret that wrong."

"I told you I know your faces, Claire. And how smart you are. I wasn't going to interpret either incorrectly."

"Good. I'm glad. Now, back to my critique... there's nothing wrong with the food. The wrong is the way you served it to me."

"Would you have preferred it in a bowl?"

"No. The problem isn't the vessel. It's more the utensil."

"You can't eat spaghetti with a spoon, Claire. The utensil is the correct one."

"I'm not making myself clear. It's not the utensil so much as it is the hand that holds it. And delivers what's on it to my mouth."

His eyes fall from my face to the fork in my hand, and I know he understands now. Not that it gets us anywhere. "I think the hand that holds it is perfect. And the right one, on this particular evening."

"I don't."

"You don't have to go that far, Claire."

"It's not far to go, Jaimin. Less than a single step, actually. And far less far than where we are now because I went far too already."

"You went where you needed to go when you came here."

"And I'm trying to tell you where I need you to go now. You know, now... after you found me here where I was wrong to come alone. Alone without you, specifically. Which hopefully I didn't really need to clarify at all."

"You alone breaks my heart, Claire. The mere thought of it... but the reality of you alone without me..."

"Is a reality that you made not. And that I love you for. More than I've ever loved you for anything before."

"I was just being me, Claire. Me that loves you too much, and–"

"You could never do that. Love me too much. Never, Jaimin."

"Too wrong, then."

"No... not that, either. But maybe you could love me not enough."

"Whatever I've done wrong, Claire, please don't interpret it as that. Because that–"

"Then feed me. This food that you think is beneath me. And beneath you. With your hand that you think is the first. Think wrongly, to be absolutely clear.

"Feed me, Jaimin. Please. And show me that you do love me enough to. And that you still believe that I love you enough to let you."

"I know that you love me, Claire."

"I should think so."

"And you know that I love you."

"Yes. I DO."

"And that."

"I absolutely do. Just like you do–absolutely–how much I love getting my way."

"Yes. That would, in fact, be impossible to misinterpret, even for me."

"So, what are you waiting for?" I ask him, willing him with the simple question to let us go back to where we were before I came here. And before there was nothing over my head–that I knew of–except for sunshine and a few occasional (interpretation be damned) storm clouds.

And he takes the fork from my hand. Very gently, I might add. And then his eyes from me one more time, watching his own movements with intense focus, before extending his surrender–and the beneath us both sustenance I forced him to give me–to my mouth. "Just for you to open, Claire."






                                                                            ~




"Even if your flowers were in full, splendid bloom, you wouldn't be able to see them in the dark, Claire."

I turn my gaze from the kitchen window to where he stands at the sink, his on me instead of his task. "Don't be so sure about that, sweetheart. My sense of sight is extraordinary. Especially in splendid darkness."

"I think I believe you, actually. You know, since you're marrying me. If I can presume you still–"

"PRESUME. And give credit where it's due. To me. 'I'm smart' credit. Because only a stupid person–girl–a complete and utter idiot of one, wouldn't marry a man who does all of the cooking AND washes all of the dishes after."

He gives me a very brief glimpse of cocky, with an also very brief, but very effective in its brevity, glimpse of You're going to get it, and then turns back to his task of cleaning up after my (only by my interpretation) late night dinner.

But since there wasn't much of a mess to tend to, he's finished quicker than quickly. And behind me quicker than that, the towel he dried the dishes with still in his hands. Still in his hands and twirling... twisting around itself between them... the glimpse of You're going to get it getting clearer, and utterly impossible to misinterpret.

Or so I thought.

Because when he extends it to me, I don't feel the slightest sting. Or burn. Or sharp pain of any kind. Because when he extends it to me, he does so with it still in both of his hands. His hands that raise up in front of me and fall back down behind, the tightly twirled and twisted towel between them used only to pull me to him. And hold me there, tightly up against. "I do all of the cooking because I love you," he declares with pride.

And though I know more 'declarations' are surely coming from his always generous, to say the least, mouth, I can't resist interrupting him. "And yourself."

"Well, enough to never let you attempt to do any, or call anything you might be brave and foolish enough to ever dare to anyway, YES..."

Meanie...

"And for other reasons we're both fully aware of...

"But I do all of the dishes because I love your brilliant and delicately so hands, and don't want to see them wasting their aforementioned delicate brilliance on unnecessary, menial tasks that I could, and do, gladly perform."

"Remember that tomorrow when it's toilet scrubbing day."

"Consider it remembered."

"And by all means disregard my interruption and continue your sweet appraisal of my brilliant and delicately so features."

Yes, I'm a brat, we know this already.

"I had every intention of it, Claire." As does he, who I don't think is going to hold it back from me now, based on his change of demeanor and tone. And grip and pull on the towel that still holds me to him. "And while you may think you're about to hear an appraisal, sweet or otherwise, of your extraordinary in all ways to me mouth... or your extraordinarily PERFECT ass... my mind is at this moment on your feet."

He did have them in his lap, and in his masterful hands, just last night, but still... "My feet?"

"Yes, your feet. That, though they are, in fact, delicate, I don't find to be as equally brilliant. Or brilliant at all, to be exact, at least on this day."

On this day? What... Oh. Because on this day they–

He finishes my thought aloud. "Because on this day–"

Or starts to anyway, before I do so he doesn't have to. "They ran away. From you. And your brilliant, though not always, or possibly ever, delicate, eyes, which I love.

"And I promised you that I, and they–my feet, which are stupid, by the way–never would."

"I didn't call them stupid, Claire."

"You could. I wouldn't argue it. Or stomp them in any sort of tantrum or fit."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that last part, because you not stomping them will keep them delicate. Because when we get home, I may feel it necessary, and be unable to not, to take all of your shoes away. And you stomping them in all of their bare and delicate glory, may–"

"You won't have to," I declare with as much passion as I've ever spoken any other words to him. "I promise you won't."

With my mouth. That, like my stupid feet, should have never come here. To be held, like the rest of me against him, in his unyielding need for me. And under his unyielding gaze. Both of which I never want to be free of.

And the second of which I should never have tried to get out from under. Or misinterpret in any way. Because there's only one interpretation that truly matters, and it's his.

And just the way, the more than enough way, that he can't help but love me.