Our Contract of Distrust

-- 27 --

By the time I arrive home in the evening I've more or less steeled myself ready to apologise.

Or at least I thought I had. Until Feodor glances up as he removes his shoes and his eyes connect with mine.

I still can't get used to them. The way they resemble shards of ice swirled in a pale ocean. The way they pierce so deeply through me.

I clear my throat and turn my attention to the other side of the room.

Why is it so difficult to utter one simple phrase?

It's not even like I'm the type who can't say something unless I mean it. I've told countless lies for the sake of the status quo. So why should it matter if I'm only 80% sorry? 

With a deep breath I finally manage, "Sorry." But honestly, it's more air than sound.

So I'm surprised when Feodor actually replies, "Me too."

Is this it? Apology done and dusted?

I feel like there should me more to it than this, but what I couldn't say.

"Tea?" I ask, because nothing else comes to me.

Feodor nods in my peripheral. "Sure."

He seats himself at the dining table while I go about preparing the tea.

It's awkward again. But I'm not sure what sort of awkward. Are we going around in circles, or is this new territory?

How do you undo months of thinking someone probably wants you dead and wishing the same for them?

"Was work... okay?" Feodor says. His voice sends a shock-wave through my body and I nearly knock a cup of boiling water all over myself.

I quickly regain my composure and turn to him. "Yeah. Same as usual."

I think he wants to ask more about it, but doesn't know how to.

And I suppose there's no harm in my disclosing the company ethos. But then I also don't know how to.  

Instead I find myself saying, "How's your work?"

Feodor shrugs as I place the tea before him. "So long as we get the work done they mostly leave us to ourselves."

He peers up at me as I take the seat opposite him.

"Is it not like that at your company?" he asks. 

 Now it's my turn to shrug. "The head of my area isn't very fond of me."

I think Feodor correctly infers that it's really more than a matter of fondness.

His lips part as if to dive further into the matter, but after a pause he takes a sip of tea instead. And I merely parrot him.

Why are we both so gosh darned awful at this?

How did it work with Trin?

Probably she was pushy enough to offset my boundless apathy and social inadequacy.

I don't know how to fill her shoes. I've only had practice at steering conversations away from myself or into extinction. 

I sigh and gulp down a mouthful of tea. It's still too hot.

But stuff it all.

"Next time, ask me before you do something like that," I tell him.

He nods. "And if it's hard... tell me."

It takes me a moment to reply. "Okay."

I scull the rest of my tea and dump the cup in the sink.

"I'm gonna take a shower."

Feodor's eyes follow me around and out of the room the whole while.

"Okay."

Is this an improvement? – running away after exchanging a few meagre sentences? 

Probably not.