frost over

I'd like to say it's the art or the coffee, but I think it's him every time.

----

"Weak Ends"

    It was not dawn that woke her but the sound of rubber on wood and the subsequent whispered "shit!" that reverberated through the disappearing darkness.
    "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.  I really have to get going, though.  You can let yourself out."
    As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the small of his back first, the one she had clung to hours ago, now covered with a shirt just like the rumpled one she had unbuttoned so deliberately earlier.  The light began filtering in through the faux wood blinds, tiny slivers of reality to bring them both out of their somnolent stupor.  Though she was comfortable in his bed, smelling the scent of him on the pillows and watching him lean down to pick up the shoe he had dropped, the uncomfortable nature of his apparent disinterest and haste began to intrude.
    She reached out to grab his hand and pull him back into the warm, soft folds of Egyptian cotton that held such safety.  His flinch seemed preemptive, a mere split second early as he reached across her for the security and reliability of his cool titanium watch on the nightstand.  He couldn't look at her -- not out of guilt or love or boredom -- simply because at this very moment he felt nothing at all when he looked at her.  Her hair draped across his pillows as if it were marking territory, staking its claim as if it had belonged there all along.  With her knees slightly bent, hands thrown above her head, almost touching, he had to admit it wasn't a terrible sight.
    "I could take you myself," she started quickly, pulling her sweater over her head.  "I'll put on some coffee to go."
    Her thoughts jumped from blankets to traffic lights, both of which required caution and thoughtful timing.  His workplace wasn't too far from her hotel, and she had a few hours before her flight.  She shrugged out of bed onto her feet, fully dressed by the time he reached for the doorknob.
    "No, that's all right, thanks.  You have a plane to catch.  Just...call me when you arrive so I know you got there safely.  I'll probably be in a meeting."
    Some part of him hated when she was like this, the way she would prolong the inevitable because she thought the outcome could be different.  At first it was innocent and sweet, almost romantic before it became routine.  Greetings and farewells became shorter, conversations were often tangential, but the amount of time together was about the same.  This arrangement was best for him.  It was best for them.  Surely she knew that.  Facing away from her, his eyes flicked upward briefly, perhaps both in short silent prayer to something that he could leave without conflict and in exasperation to carefully tiptoeing around her sincerest niceties.
    As he turned away, she knew they were going through the motions, but she too felt the irritation and banality of it all.  Some part of her clung to it out of loyalty to their proclaimed natural order of things.  It wouldn't be a visit without it.  Nor was it a visit if she spent significant time by herself in his apartment.
    "Okay, I'll do that.  Actually, I'll leave now.  That way there's no fuss about locking up."
    No nonsense, just distance.  She often had to repeat this to herself in her head although she couldn't help but think that this was all nonsense anyway.  It was all she had at the moment.  Familiarity was easier, instinctive, and more destructive than novelty.  Some people spend their whole lives looking for comfortable and sufficient, let alone extraordinary and rapturous.  At least there was satiety.  There was a delicate balance.  She could settle for that, she thought; everyone does to some degree at some point.
    She clutched her purse and heels to her chest and he his briefcase and suit jacket - their lifesaving devices in case of emergency landing on their way out the door across the cold tile foyer next to the elevator.  Down the four flights in the elevator, they fully composed themselves, smoothing disheveled hair and emotions.  Their doubt silently came and went with the single jolt of their arrival at the ground floor.  They did not touch; in fact, their truncated kiss did not even allow enough time for the faintest pressure to be felt upon their lips.  Exiting his building, they diverged without a single glance, submerged into crowds of people with certain known destinations, not to converge again until loneliness got the best of them.