Meredith Janssen (ex_perspecti86) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-05-26 13:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | !ocean's eleven, *narrative, meredith janssen |
Narrative
Who: Meredith Janssen
What: A narrative.
Where: The Venetian
When: After the dream
Warnings/Rating: None
It ended the same place where it began, back at the Venetian, though instead of the bedroom where she had been reading, she had locked herself in the bathroom instead. Not the master bath, no, but the guest bath, where she wouldn't be bothered or even noticed unless someone really wanted to find her.
But really, she doubted that would be the case.
The sweat-soaked dress was stripped off and left in a puddle of damp fabric on the floor. The air from the vents was cool against her over-heated skin, and for a moment, she just stood there, bare from head to toe, letting some of the cool relief soothe the memories from the night.
Dream.
Not a dream.
It felt too real but too far away in the same breath, and the memory of it rolled around in her stomach, churning and caustic, and before she really knew what was happening, she found herself on her knees in front of the toilet, bitter bile burning her throat as her stomach emptied its scant contents into the bowl. Red hair stuck to her neck with the cold sweat that beaded over her back and shoulders. She gripped the edge of the seat with knuckles that went bone-white, tears joining the mess before she rocked back and sat on the cold tile, cheeks fever-flushed and eyes bright with moisture.
The man's words continued to roll through her head, the conversation about love, about wanting someone, needing someone, about the sort of things one was willing to do when they were in love. He'd wait forever for her, she knew, and god but was she envious of that. Someone that loved her, that wanted her, that nearly burned for her with emotions that were so hot.
But for her, she just didn't think anything like that would ever be in the picture. She was fairly sure that he wasn't capable of loving her like that. It had never been the sort of love that threatened to burn straight through you, but something quieter and easy, something that she had learned to count on in the years since that first kiss. Coming here had changed that, though, and it left her struggling to figure it out, to keep from drowning in everything that had shifted.
They didn't talk anymore. Those quiet little moments stolen away in the evenings after his meetings had finally ended, those just didn't exist anymore. Two planets, revolving around the same sun, but with orbits that just didn't cross. It was a lonely place to exist, and one that was chilling her to the bone.
On hands and knees she crawled to the tub, kneeling there on the plush bath mat while the water warmed, steam soon filling the room. Condensation beaded on the mirror, on the tile walls that rimmed the shower, and as she breathed in the steam, that warm, hot air, she was transported almost immediately back to that dream that wasn't a dream.
There was a choked breath, a sob that she cut short, and she reached out to twist the knobs to send the water to cold. Modern plumbing saw that the water was cold, almost icy, and it helped chase the steam away.
That was the bath she crawled into, the shower turned on, the door pulled shut, and she sat there on the bottom of the tub with the cold water pouring over her. She drew her knees to her chest and bowed her head against them, the sound of the shower drowning out the sobs that escaped her with every breath.
He was hot. Burning and heated. His emotions were enough to burn, even though they didn't. They had the ability to warm a person up and fill them with comfort and heat and the things that made a person feel good.
But her?
She was just cold.