WHO: Cip and Aleks WHEN: Sunday evening [BACKDATED] WHERE: Empty classroom RATING: TBD SUMMARY: Angry Cip is angry WARNINGS: TBD
“Cip, you’re being crazy.” Jason’s head shook, turning away from her.
Her brows furrowed. “It was a joke,” she told him monotonously, though her face didn’t elicit an expression of indifference like she had hoped for.
“Well, it wasn’t funny.” Jason took it upon himself to speak very pointedly, derision pouring from his voice like his language circumnavigated around it.
“Oh stop being such a prima donna.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped venomously.
“Well you are!” Cip’s arms flailed. “I make a comment about a girl’s ass and it’s okay, but when I make one about a guy’s? Seriously? Did you not discern the jest? Did you not think that, for once, I was trying to be funny? To lighten up a situation? Because, you know, God forbid that I bring a little comic relief in this joint.”
Jason’s hands balled into fists. “You know I don’t like it.”
“And you know I don’t like it when you blatantly stare at a woman’s breast. But I don’t say anything. You know why? Because I know you love me. Because I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Because I know, regardless of being in a relationship, we still have these intrinsic, animalistic urges that are beyond our control. I’m not going to be up your ass about diminutive shit like that, and I would expect that you wouldn’t be with me either.” Cip’s knuckle dug into her temple. “When I said I liked that guy’s ass, it was a joke. I can’t believe you’re making this bigger than it should be…”
“Whatever,” he bit. “I can’t even look at your right now.” When he turned, Cip’s brows pulled down into a glower. She seized his shoulder and wrenched him back before he could even leave.
“No.” She forcibly made Jason turn. “No, you can’t keep doing that. You can’t keep running away from the situation.”
His arms flailed. “Then what, Cip?” he roared, actually making her quail slightly. “What do you want me to say? That I’m wrong, and you’re right? Fine. Cip, as always,” he began, his voice horribly latticing with sarcasm, “you’re right.”
“It’s not about who’s right!” she yelled. “It’s about fixing our problems—talking them through like normal human beings.” As she yelled, she didn’t sound livid nor did she sound exasperated. Instead, she sounded desperate. “So would you quit being a satirical, hypersensitive baby and just try to communicate with me?”
Jason stood, stoic and stiff, but his fists shook vehemently. “I’m done, Constance.”
Cip’s expression hardened, arms crossing over her torso. “Oh, so you’re just gonna quit. Just like that.” She scoffed derisively and shook her head. “I can’t believe you.”
“Oh, because you’re always the victim here.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth, Jason! You’re assuming shit, and it’s not good for us. I just…” her voice calmed into a softer tone. Finally, as if she had no strength in her, she collapsed on the stairs, combing both hands over her hair. Her next words came out in a whisper. “What’s happening to us.” But she never got an answer. Jason left the room, wordless.
The memory reiterated through Cip’s head over and over again. It played in her mind on tattered film, black and white like an old movie. Those were one of the many fights that she had with her first husband. How could something so trivial result in such a colossal quarrel? It was ridiculous.
She sat in front of the piano, the setting still with a lack of company. Her hand ran over the glossy black top of the piano—smooth and cool under the pad of her fingers. After lifting the fall, she took away the red velvet cloth that masked the piano keys, folding it gingerly and setting it aside. It’s been a while since she’s played, and she knew she was rusty. But playing gave her a sense of unsullied content that she desperately needed right now.
Experimentally, her fingers played a scale. The keys felt so foreign to her, but simultaneously familiar. Cip could never think that such a sensation existed. Slowly, but surely, she began to play the song. It echoed wonderfully throughout the vacant room, filling and imbuing it with the music. Her fingers, surprisingly, moved with ease and her eyes were locked on the instrument she was playing. A concentrated expression crossed her features, but it wasn’t concentrated on her playing. She was concentrated on forgetting.
The first marriage had gone kaput. Now she had gone through a second divorce at only the age of twenty-three. She knew she would either grow up to be a woman who lived with five hundred cats, or the woman who had fifty divorces. Neither of them sounded appealing.
Cip never asked for much. She’d never deem herself to be an acquisitive individual. All she wanted was reciprocated love, but all love has gotten her were solemn emotions and insecurity. She looked at the mirror, and she didn’t like who she saw. She didn’t like who she had become, and it was so indisputably frustrating. What if she’d never find love? What if, truly, she simply wasn’t meant for it? What if she was merely trying too hard? Question upon question slipped unremittingly in her mind, and inadvertently caused her fingers to knock harder and harder on the keys.
Emotions caused her playing to become more violent; aggressive and agitated. A discomforted expression crossed her feathers. Teeth gnashed together. Fingers became sloppy. Suddenly, her playing stopped. It was abrupt; the cause of her anger. Palms banged on the keys and she elicited an exasperated shriek that sounded almost like a sob. Hands dragged up and over her face, combing over her hair. Then, she crossed her arms over the rim of the music rack and pressed her forehead against the pile. She breathed heavily, and then eyes fluttered to a close. Then, with an angry fist, she slammed it onto the keys.