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R.A.B (fairosalind) wrote in the_8th_floor,

The glass was cool in her hand and Johns hand warm on her leg. It was the sort of casual contact that made her stomach tingle in anticipation at...whatever they had between them. Pushing her feet closer to his lap and her leg more firmly into his hand, she reclined a little more on the sofa. It wasn't that comfortable, perhaps she had bought it more for looks than comfort she couldn't remember, but it was just the right size for two people who didn't really try to avoid sitting near each other.
Taking another sip of her whisky, Rosalind decided to try that deceptive warmth he exuded and actually tell him. Letting slip parts of it couldn't be that bad could it? So much of it had hurt like hell for so long that at times she wasn't even sure if she was holding it all in from habit or necessity - maybe if she tried to share parts of it, she would discover that it didn't hurt as bad any more.
"I don't really want to pretend", she admitted softly, only gracing his jokes with a soft smile. "It is just hard to be open about this, however much I'd wish it. I...I was engaged once, three years ago. It went quickly - by muggle standards I reckon, I've noticed these things tend to happen at a higher speed in the wizarding community. We began trying for kids - how ridiculous it sounds when put like that, as if its something that takes practice and timing. It didn't happen...its heartbreaking how it seems so easy for some and is so difficult for others..and then he died. A year and a half ago. No babies. No fiancée..."

Swallowing painfully, her mouth felt incredibly dry and she wet it with a large mouthful of whisky. It didn't burn like she wanted it to, not at all enough to dull the pain and sense of loss, and she took another, emptying her glass in record speed. It didn't feel better to have said it, but perhaps it felt slightly better to know that someone knew. He couldn't understand the depth of her loss, it was not possible, but at least he knew that she had lost, that her life wasn't the proper façade that she generally protected herself with.
Sitting up slightly to reach for the bottle to fill up her glass again, the books wobbled and she quickly reached out s foot to steady them, betraying reflexes that were excellent even after a glass of spirits. Pouring s more than generous amount of liquid into the glass, Rosalind leaned back and then decisively put her naked feet in Johns lap. The subtle flirting that had been exciting a moment ago just felt wearying now, and for the moment she had lost the urge to be subtle. Momentarily she wondered if he would find that strange, her discussing one lost love while obviously coming on to him, and then she shrugged it away. Perhaps he would, but that wasn't her problem because she was well aware of the difference between them - the difference between every other man and Pat. She loved him and missed him, but she had needs and a busy mind that needed distraction. John Dawlish was a great one, with a mind as sharp as her own and a very attractive intelligence and sense of humour. She had been through the same thing with lots of men in the last year, and while it had at times caused trouble, it was never on her end. She had decided to approach these things like a man, taking what she needed and then leaving, no cuddling afterwards.
If John was different to her in any way (the obvious notion that she seldom talked to her easy connections in the way she was currently with him wholly escaped her) she did nor realise or acknowledge it.