The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bigapplesauce2016-02-06 10:39 am
andhiswife) wrote in bigapplesauce2016-02-06 10:39 am
Entry tags:
Give and Take [Closed]
Greta is standing just outside Iman's door, fist raised to knock, when she comes back to herself with an internal jolt and an external sway, as if someone had given her a light shove. Ruckus is by her side, the dog's warm weight pressing against her knee. How did they get here?
No. That's a foolish question. She remembers, of course she remembers, and so what if it's in pieces?
She remembers the sound the dog made, the way the creature rushed from one end of the apartment to the other and shoved her nose into any place small enough for a little girl to hide, circling and circling until Greta dropped to the floor and pulled her into her lap and made her stop, just stop.
She remembers pulling on her coat with promises of a walk, her tone almost normal, but her hands shaking. She remembers clipping the leash on and deliberately turning her back on the abandoned toys and crayon-scrawled wall.
Four lost in three months. Maybe she's still Cursed, after all.
She remembers crossing the Park at a brisk march, Ruckus keeping pace with her head low and her eyes wide and her ears tucked back. She doesn't remember consciously deciding to walk to Iman's apartment, but where else would she go, really, and how else could she get there with a dog in tow?
She remembers counting her paces, not as she did before, but a steady, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, keeping tempo with a melody that stubbornly refused to reveal itself. She remembers trying not to think, and she guesses she must have succeeded.
She realizes, now, that she didn't remember to text.
And now she's knocked, and she doesn't even know if Iman is home. She must look a mess, hair in disarray thanks to the wind, face flushed, and she's absolutely boiling underneath her coat. She fumbles at the buttons with one hand, the other still clinging to the leash. When Iman opens the door, she drops her hand as if she's been caught out, relief and embarrassment washing through her and temporarily, mercifully obscuring everything else.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't even tell you we were coming. Are--are you busy?" Her stomach knots, because of course she is - one of the only reasons they were spending today apart was because Iman had things to take care of, here: chores that had been neglected during the time she was away.
The other reason… the other reason is gone. Greta presses her lips together in a thin line and swallows past the lump in her throat, waiting - wishing, for the first time since the Witch blasted their front door off its hinges - to just be told what to do.
No. That's a foolish question. She remembers, of course she remembers, and so what if it's in pieces?
She remembers the sound the dog made, the way the creature rushed from one end of the apartment to the other and shoved her nose into any place small enough for a little girl to hide, circling and circling until Greta dropped to the floor and pulled her into her lap and made her stop, just stop.
She remembers pulling on her coat with promises of a walk, her tone almost normal, but her hands shaking. She remembers clipping the leash on and deliberately turning her back on the abandoned toys and crayon-scrawled wall.
She remembers crossing the Park at a brisk march, Ruckus keeping pace with her head low and her eyes wide and her ears tucked back. She doesn't remember consciously deciding to walk to Iman's apartment, but where else would she go, really, and how else could she get there with a dog in tow?
She remembers counting her paces, not as she did before, but a steady, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, keeping tempo with a melody that stubbornly refused to reveal itself. She remembers trying not to think, and she guesses she must have succeeded.
She realizes, now, that she didn't remember to text.
And now she's knocked, and she doesn't even know if Iman is home. She must look a mess, hair in disarray thanks to the wind, face flushed, and she's absolutely boiling underneath her coat. She fumbles at the buttons with one hand, the other still clinging to the leash. When Iman opens the door, she drops her hand as if she's been caught out, relief and embarrassment washing through her and temporarily, mercifully obscuring everything else.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't even tell you we were coming. Are--are you busy?" Her stomach knots, because of course she is - one of the only reasons they were spending today apart was because Iman had things to take care of, here: chores that had been neglected during the time she was away.
The other reason… the other reason is gone. Greta presses her lips together in a thin line and swallows past the lump in her throat, waiting - wishing, for the first time since the Witch blasted their front door off its hinges - to just be told what to do.