sweetbitter, buck
Aug 18, 2023 20:23:39 GMT -5
Post by fox on Aug 18, 2023 20:23:39 GMT -5
❦
In his memory, he is nineteen years old. Rimi stands on the steps of the Justice Building in the afternoon. They walk through the doors together.
It was summer, and the light poured in through the dust-coated windows. The carpeting was matted with thousands of footsteps before them, stretched out like a thinning path. They sat on the wooden bench outside of the marriage bureau, a manila folder tucked underneath his arm, and the hall smelled faintly of old paper and furniture polish. In ten years, they would return here with another folder of documents for the dissolution of their marriage.
She turned slightly, and the wood groaned beneath the shift of weight as she rested her chin on his shoulder, idly fixing his tie with one hand.
The last suit he wore was for Mourn's wedding. And before that, Vern's funeral. Sometimes he couldn't remember the difference between the two.
"Buck?"
The sound returned him to his body, and he looked up at her, realizing belatedly that her fingers were still at his throat. The blue silk slipped through her grasp as she pulled away. He thought of how easily she could kill him if she wanted to. No one else had ever been this close.
He took her hand into his lap. "Yes?"
"You're quiet," she said.
There was a cool, hollow pain in his chest. He didn't eat that day, but the pit of his stomach was filled with liquid unease. He hadn't slept much either, but apprehension buzzed through his blood.
In the moment, he suddenly wanted to tell her how he had met Esther the day Vern was buried. That before then, he hadn't given it much thought about how it would be for him. Love was personal, but marriage was duty. It seemed inconsequential, another obligation to fulfill, proof of piety. On the list of things he had given up, it barely registered as a loss.
It happened slowly. It was odd that no one else noticed; it felt like his bones had shifted every season, ribs growing around another tender thing. It was spring, and he could not live without her.
He remembers the sheer scent of the jasmines she wore, how warm her hands were. He remembers the heat of the sun, the time, nearly three p.m., standing on the top of the steps, her hair lit amber in the light. And her face then, an expression he'd never seen before, gazing up at him. The softness of her eyes were betrayed by some raw, burning bearing. He would know it well after a decade. He would finally recognize it for what it was.
"I'm just thinking," he said slowly, wan smile, still clutching her hand. Later, she'd tell him that his grip was so tight it almost hurt.
"I'll get to call you my wife."
Why was it that he felt strangely reprehensible in that moment? Maybe he had felt guilty from the beginning. It followed them through their marriage like a stray dog. Rimi used to call him possessive – he worried that the smallest thing would make her lost to him. There were times where he wondered if everything would vanish when the sun rose. He'd lie in the darkness and be exhaustively aware of her, the rhythm of her breath, every point of contact. It never felt real, as if they were half-asleep in a dream he clung onto. Because all along he knew what he would be taking from her and how she could hate him for it. He was always waiting for her to realize it too.
She leaned back, the soft weight of her on his shoulder. He didn't let her go again as they waited.
Back then, he used to show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. She would let him in, and he'd crawl into bed, just to lie somewhere that wasn't his house, sleep somewhere he wasn't sick of. Rimi would pull open the covers and brush his hair back as he settled, still carrying the smell of metal and gunpowder from the factories, frame brittle with exhaustion.
She gave him a spare key, and often he'd visit the apartment even when it was empty – if only to sit for awhile, soaking in the details of her life like it was sunlight. Sometimes, he would leave a bag of fresh apples on the table, or a carton of milk if she was running low, or put the dishes in the sink away, fix a leaking faucet before he left. He loved her in the ways he knew how to. And for him, it was a delicate, fragile miracle that she loved him at all.
He knew he was a liar. He had no right to be this selfish.
Inside the office there were two flags hanging from poles, Panem and District Nine, the walls adorned with little paintings, and the tall windows were framed with heavy purple drapes. The fireplace was cold and blackened in the summertime, a dying wreath of flowers curling on the mantle. An old man had them stand before each other as he looked through their files from the podium, periodically pushing his glasses up his nose.
She was crying as the clerk recited the vows for them to repeat. And he cupped her face very gently, almost afraid he'd done something wrong. He wondered then, if she had wanted a real wedding. He'd get her a real ring. They would buy a big house. He'd make up for this. That is what he thought at the time.
In the end, he never really understood her or what it was that she wanted most. Maybe she didn't understand him either.
The way they ended felt like a natural conclusion of things. It was like watching the rain slow. The seasons crept up on them in their distraction. One day they woke up to the soft spiderwebs of frost in the grass, and one day they realized, strangely, it had become winter again, and they had become different people. They didn't fight in the end.
Nineteen years old, he promised his life to her. She was always beautiful, and he remembers her smiling when the clerk pronounced them wed, as radiant as the sun.
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, laughing when they pulled apart.
They were married.
In ten years, in front of a different man, they would sign away the vows they exchanged here. Little had changed in the office. The carpet was still terribly worn, and all the wood carried the scent of lemon polish. Now, the fireplace was alive and licking at logs. The panes of glass were opaque with snow. And Rimi and Buck were just older.
