Goodbye, Hello

02 DOWN THE BARREL

Present day
Warsaw, Poland
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On the brutal morning of the day they meet the accountant, the house swims with anything and everything negative. All lights are off, even in the dim light of the early morning, and no one smiles this time of the day.

          Wakatoshi spent another night on the couch meant for sitting, listening to muffled weeping cut off by an abrupt sleep. He had stood on his own two feet at midnight, body tense as he almost went to console her. But something about that felt wrong, and he sat down before she could continue. He sat down after near an hour of holding his breath outside of the bedroom door, of course, until he was lightheaded and lost in the dark.

          It rained again, he heard it on the roof and heard it wash down the gutter beside the windows. He didn't run this morning in light of the meeting that's to happen.

          Wakatoshi gets up, stretches out his sore muscles and every kink in his poor back, and is on the way to making coffee when Mari walks out of the bedroom in modest pajamas. It's nothing like his shirt, but he suspects that's why she's wearing them.

           Subconsciously, he looks at her ring finger; her ring is still there, gold and beautiful and everything she embodies.

           They don't say good morning, ask how the other slept. Instead they share a minimum of two glances before Mari says that she'll cook breakfast. He wordlessly gets her a mug of french vanilla, a daily specialty, but this morning it tastes no sweeter than salt.

          She sets his plate down, and from as far away as possible, and they eat at the same table. Forks clatter on porcelain and it fills up the void that's left by chatter, or lack thereof, and they engage in what has to be the most solemn breakfast known to man.

          It also might be the shortest, after Wakatoshi leaves his devoured empty plate and Mari finishes her eggs and slightly-burnt toast alone.

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The waiting room of the office reminds Mari of a hospital; pale walls and funny-printed seats next to tables of sanitizer and magazines. She loathes it.

          Next to her sits Wakatoshi, in a nice coat and all. Normally he would have asked Mari whether he was overdressed or not, but she supposes that it really doesn't matter anymore what she thinks, nor what he wears.

          They're alone, too, which makes the wait all the worse. Her leg bobs up and down and he sits frighteningly still, opting to scroll through his phone that almost looks too small for his hands. Mari internally begs for anything, even a glance of reassurance from her husband sat idly, but nothing comes and nothing goes.

          She isn't quite sure what she expected from that ─ as if Wakatoshi's mind wasn't a clusterfuck of random thoughts and fleeting memories already, this had it in a loop. Either that, or he simply doesn't care.

          Tell me you care, tell me you care, tell me all the things about me that you used to care about.

         She tucks her hands into her sleeves with a sudden chill, toying with her wedding ring that isn't getting any warmer; it's been frigid for a while. She feels along the edges of the stones it's made with, around her favourite shape and along the band that feels much looser now. Her nails are painted sage green; he used to love it.  She supposes he might not anymore, though. And she doesn't really want him to, it's supposed to be over.