For Lykke,
here's to surviving hell week, and talks about oranges and Fleabag lol :D
___________
It's been a while.
She pushes the door to her apartment, careful to keep the bag of groceries she has in one hand from dropping to the floor and the other finding the light switch on the wall out of habit.
It's been a while and she still finds herself anticipating the little laugh and the soft pads of socked feet on her wooden floors, the soft hi that manages to fill the silence and speak of longing, and brown eyes that look at her in earnest as she tries to wiggle her way through the small gap in the door.
It's been a while—that she forgets that there's nothing there to greet her but a silence that fills the ears long after she's turned on the TV to try and drown it out, as she places the bags on the kitchen counter.
She lets the thought go, for a moment. Rummaging through the plastic and carefully placing each item into its designated place inside the kitchen. It's almost mechanical, a well learnt routine that somehow fills her afternoon with something to do other than sit on the sofa and think about things that were.
She allows herself a smile, reaching into her back pocket to get the box of cigarettes that she brings along with her that she doesn't really have the heart for most days. And then there are days like these where the urge is undeniable and even if it tastes like burnt paper and grass, she still finds herself lighting one out of habit and taking a long deep drag that fills her lungs with nicotine laced smoke that she keeps in—longer than she should.
She hears the reproach in Chaeyoung's voice in her head talking about integrating new habits to get rid of old ones and for a while that worked.
Except she hates lying, and she was never really great at keeping the momentum needed to establish those habits, and so she stuck with the ones she's familiar with.
She takes an orange out of the bag, digs her nails into the skin and starts peeling it off slowly. Measured movements that stain her hands with juices that she licks off. The citrus scent filling the space around her, clinging to the skin under her nails, the back of her throat and even on her teeth—and for a minute it fills her head with the image of her smile.
She lets it linger.
Longer than usual.
Pushing herself to try and draw the smile she gets when she comes home from work and finds her seated by the counter with a glass of wine in hand and a readied plate of heated food that she secretly hates but eats anyway because she spent the entire evening pouring over youtube how-to-cook vids to get it perfect, in her mind.
It works, if only for a moment.
Finally feeling her touch on her skin, fingers through her hair, "Stop moving and let me braid your hair," warm breath against her ears and she almost drops the slice of fruit in her hands.
Regret pours over her and she shakes it off with popping the orange into her mouth.
It's sweet and tangy; soft lips against her own.
It's not working at all, she thinks, so she picks up the phone and dials the number before she can think of anything else that's logical that should have kept her from biting her lip in anticipation as the line rings.
"Hello?"
She takes an intake of breath and she's filled with the scent of orange and peach, and warm nights sprawled out on the bed and their legs tangled with each other.
