there's a hum coming from upstairs, like the television has been left on at too loud of a volume.
she hears it and sighs. she's not sure if she should be happy or sad; there's a realm of possibilities of what she'd find if she were to follow the sound. she takes a breath, shakes her head as she closes the door behind her with her foot, grocery bags clutched tightly in her hands as she waddles to the kitchen. she sets the bags down and sighs, trying to ignore the sound. she can make out the words. they play over and over again in a loop. two sentences. a laugh. familiar.
she huffs air from between her lips and lets her head drop, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. she turns, gazing over her shoulder at the stairway. the music is coming from the top of it, down the hall. their bedroom.
he hasn't moved since i left, has he? it's a thought that crosses her mind, one that makes her heart squeeze in her chest. a glimpse at the clock on the wall confirms that two hours have passed since she left. her heart heaves with the possibility that he hasn't moved from the spot she'd last seen him in.
she toes her shoes off and tucks them away under the kitchen table. she's mulling in her head some sort of speech as she climbs the stairs, but it seems to disappear when she reaches the top and the loop continues. she opens their bedroom door quietly, not wanting to disturb him anymore than she already has. "dave?"
the volume doesn't cease and she isn't sure if she wants it to anyways. hesitancy as david tips his head up to look at her. hesitancy, always, in situations like this. moments like these are hard for her. she can never know if she's making the right choice with her words, with her body language, with her facial expressions. he turns so sad and blank in the winter. she can never be sure how he's feeling.
her steps are quiet as she pads across the hardwood floor towards their bed. his back is facing her, his head tipped over his shoulder so that his eyes--droopy and sad--meet hers. "dave?" she repeats. he's sitting in the same place she'd left him, on his side of the bed (the left, of course, the blankets wrinkled up under him). his laptop is resting atop his thighs, same clip playing over and over again. the source of the noise. he sort of jumps when she says his name again, as though he hadn't quite heard her the first two times. the faint dimples at the bottom of his back momentarily deepen and she sighs again--she feels like that's all she does now--because she hasn't seen the dimples of his cheeks in what feels like forever. she misses his smile, the way it lights up his whole face.
"sorry," he says, his voice small. "i, uh." hesitancy. he doesn't finish his sentence. he pauses the clip, though. she'd hoped that catching him editing had been a good sign. it hadn't been, apparently. "did you just get home?" he asks, his eyes not meeting hers. "i would've helped put away the groceries, if you told me."
she smiles a small, weak smile, stepping closer to the bed. "that's ok," she says, voice a small whisper as her hand moves to run through his hair, twisting it around her fingers. it's gotten longer. he hasn't gotten a haircut all winter. his eyes flutter shut and a look of relief washes over his face. "you showered?"
his eyes open. he nods, watching as a glimpse of pride flashes over her face. his bottom lip pulls between his teeth. i've disappointed her that many times? that a fucking shower is an accomplishment? "that's good, d. that's great. how," she clears her throat, fingers working at a knot in his damp hair. "how do you feel?"
david looks into her hopeful eyes, begging for any indication that he's better. he sighs. "i feel okay," he says. he feels better than he has been, but he still doesn't feel happy. good.
he hates disappointing her like this. but he can't lie, not to her. he reaches slowly, fingertips stretching out to touch hers, until their fingers interlock and her skin sets fire. "one to ten?" she asks, her free hand moving to rest on top of their clasped hands. her fingertips dance over the back of his hand, tracing over his veins.
