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 |  Repository for my Zanier Ideas... on writing, and life. |
| Every moment the chance of impressing Lauren slips through Jack's fingers, even here, alone as he steps out of the shower. He picks up his pants to put them on. Coins fall out of the pocket. They clatter on the linoleum, announcing his clumsiness to the cat, to the neighbors, to his fiancée. The urge to vent rose in his throat. Such passions are not allowed in his new world, and he choked them down. He closed his eyes and shook his head. In a calm, albeit pained, voice he says, "Really?" Surely that's allowed. He's heard her say the same thing. "You know, you're doing it to yourself, right?" No, not allowed. He shakes his head and breathes. All his life, the man had been keeping coins in his pocket and picking his pants up. He'd never had such an experience, not before meeting her. He could not fathom how he was 'doing it to himself,' but he did not think in that fashion. He did not question her judgment just continually drove himself to live up to her standards. Instead, he pushed down his feelings. Without so much as a sarcastic "Yes, dear," he dressed himself and picked up the coins. Outside, his love began cooking. She fed him well, when she was there, and kept her cupboard well stocked. He just didn't have time. Nobody wanted to hire him, not at jobs she gave him permission to take. Not at all materialistic, she needed the substantial income in case her own went away. He walked up behind her. He knew her day had been hard, and wanted to make it up to her, at least a little. He stroked her shoulder and washed his hands to help her cook. As they sat down, in their unfurnished bedroom, with the pork chops, he smiled. She didn't know him that well, for all the secrets they had shared. If she ever suspected his eating pattern was dangerous, she never hinted. He assumed she would care, and did not want to worry her. "Thank you, my love." She started eating, and he followed suit. It wasn't like she could tell how much he was starving unless she took careful inventory of the food. She didn't have time for that. He didn't have much enthusiasm for food, didn't act all that hungry. Three weeks they had been living together, and everything that had drawn them together—their love of writing, the grand fantasies and romantic drama they had shared across the country—all had evaporated. Two things still they had. He followed her lead, her iron command no matter how gently stated, and— and well, she did approve of his weight loss, apparently. She never complained when he didn't eat more. |
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