[ he should know better than to trap her with the question, unfair of himself to put that on her, to make her answer something that he himself craves after having been so consistently denied it — (to be able to stay, to not be pushed away, to not be left behind, to be wanted) — and he realizes that selfishly it may not all tied to her, that it's his own burdens and loneliness pushing him to want someone, anyone, just so he doesn't feel as alone as he has for so long.
but if it were so simple, then any saloon girl should do. sandy had offered up the invitation for the night, an easy enough fix that could scratch the itch for the night, with no obligation to hold onto once he leaves this town. but it isn't what he wants.
fingers trace upon his shirt once again, marta's fingers, and he thinks of the routine they've settled into, of wordless understanding, quiet mornings in a stuffy office, hands exchanging letters from locals and fresh coffee, snide sarcasm paired with a sigh-accompanied eye roll and a half smile that takes it with a quiet version of endearment, brushing fingers smoothing back uncombed strands of hair while recounting old stories from memory, warm touches that spell out the invitation into the temporary home of its hold.
it wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you, she says, but all he can think is how unfair he is to her, to ask this of her, when every memory he recounts now between the heated swirl of their breaths will be forgotten, if not in the coming days, then in the coming months where he eventually won't even remember why he was so desperate to hold onto her here in this moment in the first place.
then let me ask — can i stay with you?
the words never leave his lips, just as he never gets to reach again for her hand to voice his own answer with their laced connection (in his mind, he recalls two lonely stick-threaded dolls, their figures imperfect, jagged and misshapen, yet still fitting together at the touch of their hands as if they'd always been made to). instead, he startles with the voice behind him that shatters the peace of their exchange. eye contact finally breaking as his hands finally depart from their place near her thighs, he steers his gaze downward, collecting himself back to the reality of their space, before he straightens up and turns to the man behind him.
instantly, he can see that look, knows its kind, smugness wrapped in a superior sense of masculinity with eyes that don't mask their descent to the fall of marta's skirt, and whether it's the guilt that he might've cornered her like one of these lecherous men would, or the disgruntled protectiveness in observing the way someone else's eyes might be trapping her in such a lewd display, his eyes harden, even as his voice remains steady, laced with his own invincible warning. ]
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but if it were so simple, then any saloon girl should do. sandy had offered up the invitation for the night, an easy enough fix that could scratch the itch for the night, with no obligation to hold onto once he leaves this town. but it isn't what he wants.
fingers trace upon his shirt once again, marta's fingers, and he thinks of the routine they've settled into, of wordless understanding, quiet mornings in a stuffy office, hands exchanging letters from locals and fresh coffee, snide sarcasm paired with a sigh-accompanied eye roll and a half smile that takes it with a quiet version of endearment, brushing fingers smoothing back uncombed strands of hair while recounting old stories from memory, warm touches that spell out the invitation into the temporary home of its hold.
it wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you, she says, but all he can think is how unfair he is to her, to ask this of her, when every memory he recounts now between the heated swirl of their breaths will be forgotten, if not in the coming days, then in the coming months where he eventually won't even remember why he was so desperate to hold onto her here in this moment in the first place.
then let me ask — can i stay with you?
the words never leave his lips, just as he never gets to reach again for her hand to voice his own answer with their laced connection (in his mind, he recalls two lonely stick-threaded dolls, their figures imperfect, jagged and misshapen, yet still fitting together at the touch of their hands as if they'd always been made to). instead, he startles with the voice behind him that shatters the peace of their exchange. eye contact finally breaking as his hands finally depart from their place near her thighs, he steers his gaze downward, collecting himself back to the reality of their space, before he straightens up and turns to the man behind him.
instantly, he can see that look, knows its kind, smugness wrapped in a superior sense of masculinity with eyes that don't mask their descent to the fall of marta's skirt, and whether it's the guilt that he might've cornered her like one of these lecherous men would, or the disgruntled protectiveness in observing the way someone else's eyes might be trapping her in such a lewd display, his eyes harden, even as his voice remains steady, laced with his own invincible warning. ]
You heard her. She's fine. No problem here.