leela joshi (clarity) wrote in thecaldera, @ 2018-03-16 03:05:00 |
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Leela struggles to listen to her macroeconomics lecture while juggling a hangover. The words on the powerpoint bleed in and out of focus when she feels a tap on her arm and a scrap of paper slides over her shoulder. You didn't return my pen :), it reads. Confused, Leela looks at the girl seated behind her, who jerks her head to the right. Leela’s eyes follow to see a guy she thinks she may have borrowed a pen from last week. Coincidentally, it’s the pen she’s using right now. He smiles and waves at her. She scowls. So petty. Next class, Leela strides up to him and slams a box of unopened pens on his desk before the lecture starts. "Whoa!" He jumps in his seat. “Here are your fucking pens.” Tristan starts laughing as he looks up at the girl. "Hey! Good morning! Do you still need a pen? I can give you one or several since it looks like you got me a lot. Thanks, by the way, I appreciate it," he grins. “No, that’s okay,” her voice is bitter saccharine, an aggressive display of sarcastic sweetness. “You hold onto them all since your pens are clearly so important to you.” "Are you sure? I don't mind giving a couple away. I'll give you some paper too, if you'd like," he rummages through his bag and takes out a few sheets. He then opens the box she slammed on his desk and grabs a handful of pens. He excitedly offers the writing materials to her. "Here!" Leela frowns, mistaking his friendliness for passive-aggression. However, she takes one of his pens and begins writing on one of the sheets of paper on his desk. Fuck you it reads in a feminine scrawl when she’s done. “Fuck you,” she reiterates. “I don’t need whatever weird attitude you’re giving me right now.” He clicks his tongue, reading what she wrote and nodding at her choice words. "Alright, that's fair. I guess I am being weird. But before you go, and while you're still holding that pen and paper, can I get your number?" He asks boldly with a smile. Leela pauses, taken aback. Her eyebrows lift as she bites back a smile. “So is this your move?” she asks - still holding the pen, rolling it around between her fingers. “You lend girls your pens and when they give it back to you, you get their numbers?” "Well, you tell me," Tristan smiles, pleased she's being responsive now. "If I get your number, then it is a move." Leela does smile this time, a light upward curve of her lips as her eyes flicker downward at the paper. For a moment, she considers it, nevermind that she was telling him to fuck himself less than a moment ago. “So it’s not a move,” she looks back at him. “But if you keep at it, who knows? It might work one of these days.” He grins with a devious twinkle in his eyes. "Well, then, I hope you're prepared to see a lot more of me from this day forward." “I think I could be open to that.” Leela’s fingers drag along her husband’s jaw, his stubble catching under her nails. “I don’t know, I don’t like it,” she declares. They’re seated on the couch, sun streaming through their blinds as she studies the beard Tristan is growing in. Her thumb rests on his chin as she turns his face at an angle so she can get a better look the shadow this new facial hair casts on the face she loves so much. "Aw, come on. I think it looks good on me. You just don't like it because you're not used to it," Tristan argues, chuckling softly as he glances at his wife from his peripheral. He gently pulls away from Leela's hold so he can look at her and smile. "No, really. You don't like it?" Leela’s eyes flick up to meet his. She pouts. “I can’t see your face behind all that hair.” The corners of her lips curve upward playfully. “Your face is my favorite part of you.” He grins, his hand resting on her knee, thumb idly rubbing circles. "Are you sure you're not just saying that to convince me to shave this all off? That's not gonna work, babe." “You know me, I’m not that subtle. If I wanted you to shave, I would just tell you.” She takes his face in her hand and leans into him, stopping just short of his lips. “Shave it off.” She pats his cheek and straightens her back. It's Tristan's turn to pout now, his lips jutting out. "Aww, babyyy, come onnnn," he whines. He scoots closer to her until they're almost nose-to-nose, his arm going around her. She arches into him, her arms snake around his neck. "What if I just keep it nice and short? Trimmed and well-maintained? Will you let me keep it, then, hm?" He gives her his most charming and convincing smile. And it works. “Okay, let’s try it,” she agrees. She places a kiss on the tip of his nose. “But the second you stop grooming it, I stop waxing.” He grins and kisses her rosy lips. "Deal." "I already told you, I'll trim it soon," Tristan repeats himself for the nth time that week. In just a few days, he's received Leela's ire several times over his thick and unruly beard—a sign that he hasn't shaved for Lord knows how long (Leela's probably been keeping count). And until now, he still hasn't picked up a razor to appease her. "Just—stop nagging, will you? The more you complain, the more I don't want to do it," he huffs frustratedly, brows furrowing as he gives her a firm look. His wife’s eyes flash indignation at being called a nag. “I wouldn’t have to say anything if you would just do it,” Leela bites back through her teeth. “When is ‘soon,’ Tristan? It’s been over a week.” (She has been keeping count.) "And I'll be keeping it for another week at this rate, if you don't stop ragging on me," he snaps, nearly raising his voice. "What's your problem, Leela? I mean, seriously? It's not as bad as you're making it out to be." Leela’s jaw sets stubbornly. “That’s really fucking mature of you,” she snaps back. Where his voice edges up, hers goes low - as if she’s digging her heels into the ground with her words alone. “And not ‘as bad as I’m making it out to be?’” She echoes. Her voice raises as she answers her own question. “You look like Ryan Gosling when he comes back from war in The Notebook.” Tristan suddenly guffaws. "Wow, is that supposed to be an insult? Should I be hurt? If so, you need to work on your comebacks, Leela. If you improve, maybe I'll shave my beard," he grins, feeling smug. The flames of competition lick at Leela’s insides and her jaw clenches in anger. “I don’t know, Tristan. Do you like that I think you look like you look like an old homeless person who’s grief fucking their best friend’s widow? Why don’t you start collecting cans in a shopping cart and hang out under the freeway to complete the look, because who cares what your wife thinks, right?” Tristan merely scoffs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. "Yeah, you're right. I don't care what you think. If you think I look like an old homeless person, then that's your problem, not mine." The silence that falls between them is heavy and tense, and neither of them move to break it. Leela glares at her husband with ice hot rage before she turns on her heels and storms away, shouting at him “Shave” as she leaves. Leela sits cross legged at the edge of their bed while she waits for her husband to come home. Her fingers graze the sheets and she’s hit with a jolt of electricity as she’s flooded by memories of the way she used to feel around him. Used to, she reminds herself when the nostalgia works its way into doubt. She can’t remember the last time they were in a room together that wasn’t filled with the tense and tired air of another anticipated fight. He comes home and into the bedroom and they greet each other with curt hellos. Her eyes follow him quietly as he moves around the room and as she does, she wonders when she fell out of love with him. She doesn’t think she wants to know. “T-” she breaks the silence. Pauses. Thinks better of it, and completes his name. “Tristan, I think we need to talk.” As he's peeling off his coat, he looks at Leela over his shoulder with his eyebrow raised. "Talk? What for and what about?" He throws his coat over an armrest and proceeds to undo his tie, walking around the room, waiting for his wife to continue. Leela struggles with the question. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to bring up so cavalier. But what is the right way? Not this, she tells herself. Not when he thinks you’re about to pick a fight about the dishes. “Just come here a minute and let me talk to you.” Tristan pauses and stares at Leela for a moment. He sighs, halting undoing the buttons of his shirt and goes to sit beside his wife. "Alright, what is it?" “So.” It’s a filler - the kind of so you say when you’re stalling or looking for words. And it’s obvious that’s what it is from the way that her eyes remain averted, fixed at a point on the bed to his left. “I’ve been thinking-” Maybe she doesn’t have to say it. Maybe it’s better to stay together. Maybe they can keep pretending everything’s ok. But the maybes are a band aid on the gash that is their marriage. “I’ve been thinking that I should get my own place.” And now that band aid has been ripped off. Tristan turns his head so fast he swears he hears it crack. "Wait, what? You're getting your own place?" He stares at her incredulously, eyes wide. "How—where—why?" “Tristan,” she matches his incredulity, though for different reasons entirely. She wasn’t expecting his shock. “We’re not happy.” "I know, but—" He admits it. They aren't happy and haven't been for a long time now. In hindsight, he feels he should have expected this, but he didn't. He takes a deep breath and pinches his nose, processing the situation still in disbelief. His eyes wander around their bedroom. Many past scenes and memories of when they used to be young and in love—kissing by the window, cuddling in bed, Leela helping out with his necktie just because she wanted to—suddenly flood their way back. He remembers how marrying her and having their children made him feel like a winner. And now, as the memories fade, he feels failure. He looks back at her, wondering where they went wrong, but can't pinpoint it. He turns away and takes another deep breath, his gaze falling to the floor. "Where will you go," he asks, his tone calm, low, and resigned. "What about the kids…" “I’ll find a place nearby. We can take turns with the kids. Whatever’s easiest on them. We’ll-” We’ll make it work, she was about to say, but the words die before they leave her lips. Would they? They couldn’t make them work. Her eyes flick to him. She takes in his face, how he’s aged and changed. She has, too. But she knows him. And she knows what has remained constant - He’s still as tenacious as she is and he would do anything for their children. “We’ll figure it out,” she says instead. Tristan isn't listening to the minister. Whatever words he's saying would just go through one ear and come out of the other. He's distracted in his own wedding as he keeps glancing at Leela with a big and excited smile. He can't believe they're here together. She's a beautiful vision in white and in just a few more minutes, they'll be husband and wife. "I love you," he mouths to her. Leela isn’t listening to the minister, either. Everything feels surreal, everything seems out of focus. A fog of excitement and exhaustion and adrenaline hangs over her, and everything is a blur. In her haze, she focuses on Tristan. She blinks, watches his lips move, and registers what he’s saying. Her heart picks up pace for a moment, the way it does when she’s reminded that she loves him. When it returns to normal, she feels like she can breathe again and everything becomes clear. Because as long as they love each other, everything will be all right. She doesn’t need a minister to tell her what she already knows. “I love you,” she mouths back. Fortunately for them both, the minister’s wrapping up. They exchange their vows and are presented with the rings. Tristan holds Leela’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. He smiles at her as their platinum wedding bands glimmer under the light. "Till death do us part, right?" She beams at him as her right hand moves to the back of his neck. “Right,” she answers before she kisses him. |