Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies
Was it there, between his words? What echoed in the space between plenty and enough? What else had she fit into his head tonight?
Ava groped for her anger and she couldn’t hold onto it. It ought to be there; she ought to be able to take it in her hands and feel its heat warming her through. It wasn’t gone – it was never gone – but it felt distant, a glowing coal buried somewhere in the ashes, like to find it she’d have to sift through so much pain, so much hurt, to dirty her hands all over again. She couldn’t summon up the strength for it.
Her skirt would wrinkle, sitting like this, Ava thought. If it wrinkled, she’d need to take them out – maybe herself, or maybe have someone do it. Steam was the best way; it was a delicate fabric, silk. An iron on a damp cloth would do the trick as well, but it was risky; silk burned so easily, and the creases left by the iron could be worse than whatever she had been trying to remove to begin with. Ava preferred to take care of her clothing herself; she didn’t do the heavy laundry, because she didn’t have much space for it, because the rough, inevitable chapping of one’s hands was something she couldn’t afford, but the small maintaining – ironing, steaming, cleaning spots here and there – those she did and she valued them. These things were precious to her; how could she not delight in keeping them clean?
And so – slowly, even though her body was hard to move, as if she were made of something much heavier than flesh and blood – slowly, Ava shifted her weight, smoothed out her skirt, settled her hands back into place. At least she wasn’t shaking anymore, she realized. But she didn’t look up; she settled back into the stillness and silence she’d left. It was comfortable there, and she let herself enjoy it a few more moments.
Tom took a deep breath, and Ava found she was ready to look up again, slowly, her eyes still glistening faintly. She watched him take the tear from his eye, show it to her, shining like a diamond and infinitely more precious. Ava’s eyes overflowed again, and she shook her head, ever so slightly. She had lived through it all and she was still here; the memories wouldn’t defeat her any more than her past, and she knew she was strong enough to bear their heavy weight.
Ava appreciated the space between them – that he’d sat on the other couch, calling her madam and Ms. Weaver despite her slip. She was grateful for it, for that strange sensitivity of his. She wondered how deep he could see inside her, how much she’d revealed, and was grateful he had sat at all.
What did she need?
Ava thought of the room upstairs, the place of privacy she’d carved out of the world for herself two years ago. Thought, too, of how much it had meant to her, then, to be able to be alone. To have time to cry or scream or weep or just ache, in private, where no one could know. Was that what she wanted now? To go upstairs and curl up – maybe not alone, not totally, but with the handsome gray cat who wouldn’t know what her tears meant? To sleep, if she could, as much as she could, until the next day dawned and she could put her face on again?
“Don’t go yet?” Ava asked. Her voice wasn’t quite its usual smooth self, but there was strength in it again, nothing quivering. “I don’t mean more lessons, and I don’t quite know what we should discuss, but I…” Ava pulled a little harder on the long red string hanging out of her chest, unraveling her heart a little more before him. “I don’t want to be alone.” She thought he would have understood even if she hadn’t said it – she really did think so. But perhaps the saying wasn’t for him, not really. Things said couldn’t be taken back, and this one – perhaps she wanted this one between them, laying bare on her polished table.
Ava pulled a little harder. “No,” she said, slowly. “That’s not quite it.” And it wasn’t; it wasn’t that she didn’t want to be alone. Who else’s company could she have born now? She couldn’t imagine sitting here opposite anyone else. Ava felt something like a smile on her face; she didn’t know what it looked like, and she could only hope it wasn’t horrifying. It didn’t feel like it would be; it felt natural and easy, and a little teary, perhaps, but all hers. “I want you here, Mr. Cooke, if you don’t mind,” she looked up at Tom again, blinking at the tears, using the edge of her palm to dab the last of them away. The smile felt a little stronger now.