Title: And Circumstance Author: cantbesilent Rating: G Category: Future Disclaimer: Borrowing Notes: I love this one because its not my spanish homework. Its very different than anything else I've ever done in terms of style, so I kinda like that about it. I've wanted to do something with the subject matter for a while, and this is the best one I've been able to come up with. Kinda iffy about the characterization, so I apologize if its a little off. Didn't take very long and poorly proofed, so all mistakes are part of my artistic vision. You know how I feel about comments! She tells him she doesn't have the time. Work. Deadlines. Meetings. Dinners. Memos. Initiatives. Exercise. Sunday brunch. The latest novel she's buying time to read. Him. Them. Where's the time? She tells him if he can make an extra ten hours in the week, if he can bargain himself with the clock. If he can do any of that, well, than maybe she could do it. But until then, she doesn't have the time. He tells her she should do it anyway. * She reads like her life depends on it. Briefing memos, letters of concern, statistics and schedules. She doesn't hand the reports off if she's able. She brings them home and curls up on the couch, her sock clad feet hanging over the arm rest. She highlights and scribbles, the margins becoming her own self published work. She says she absorbs it all so easily, the wealth of information. Aids in Africa, female cancer studies, religious persecution in third world countries, historical preservation in rural America. It's read in an hour, and before she knows it she's a pseudo expert. He smiles and tells her she's always been that way, since he can remember. He hands her sheets of paper. * She leans against his doorframe. "Its not cheap." "We can manage." He keeps typing "It'll take a lot of time." "The best things always do." He sees her smile. * He's got photos in his office. The picture of his dad. That's been there as long as he's had an office. The former president, clad in a tuxedo, gripping him in a tight embrace. A classic grin across his face. Old friends in business suits or formal attire. Frozen icons of his well spent youth. Her. He's also got stuff on his walls. With seals and emblems and signatures of very important men with very important jobs. Honors and awards, decorations and distinctions from institutions older than the country they live to serve. She's got more photos than he does. * "It's too late." She rolls over in their bed, her words a muffle in her pillow. "That's absolutely untrue." "It doesn't even matter anyway." She falls asleep with more words on her lips. * He finds the forms in the trash can, lying peacefully on top of the recently emptied milk carton. They aren't wrinkled or ripped, tattered or torn. It was as if she placed them down gingerly, in hesitation. He takes them out and runs his hands over them, straightening the imaginary crinkles. He places them on her bedside table, anchoring them with her book on Mary Queen of Scots. * There's too many papers, too many tests. Too many things to memorize, too much to read. He tells her that's crap, her job now is more demanding than anything that requires a thesis. She can do one or the other, not both. She flips off the TV and walks into their bedroom. The bed wasn't made that morning. She collapses onto her side of it with a sigh. She wants some kind of a life, some kind of respite, some time to relax. Meetings and State Dinners and mid-term exams don't mix. She turns to face him. She sighs through a smile that she loves her job. He smiles and nods, telling her he knows that she does. He kisses her chastely on her forehead. But she wants a life. Not more things to make notes of and lectures to sit through. He pauses and rolls the ends of her hair between his fingers. "A life?" She nods. He clears his throat. "Like kids?" His voice is a whisper. He sees her smile slightly in the poorly lit room. "Like kids." She agrees. And a trip to Australia and time to redecorate, she adds. * She does really well for herself. Her office is twice the size of his. She's got her own personal assistant. She's had lunch with the wife of the French president. Their public school initiative and childhood literacy program are the most successful east wing programs since the 1980s. She knows things. She can read and write, name all the countries in NATO and tell you that James Garfield was killed by Charles Guiteau. She's already got a couple job offers for whenever she decides to let go of this all. So she tells herself she doesn't need it. But she keeps the forms in her desk drawer anyway. * He tells her he'll help her. Paper editing, thesis paragraphs, supreme court decision memorization. He'll make flashcards and mnemonic devices. She laughs and teasingly tells him that might not be necessary. He'll write her a letter of recommendation. That might not be necessary either, she replies. Or morally sound. He tells her he doubts she'll need it anyway. * "I wonder if transfer credits expire." "They don't." He gulps down the last of his coffee. She folds up the newspaper. "They could." "I doubt it." "I don't." She replies, biting into her lower lip. * She's kept an old catalog hidden away for a while now. She figures it's probably pretty out of date and doesn't serve much purpose, but she keeps it anyway. She hasn't told him about it, but he might know anyway. He has a way of always knowing. He's at the kitchen table, drowning himself in whatever crisis happened that day. She cleans out their mugs of now cold hot chocolate and kisses him goodnight. A trail of his words follows after her. He won't be that much longer. She sneaks out the booklet, its pages slightly more yellow than the last time she let herself look at it. The pages flick before her quickly. She's got stuff highlighted. Course title and number. She forgot she did that. Stopping, she slips down against the wall and sits on the floor by her closet. She lets herself read the descriptions. * "I don't like graduation ceremonies." She picks up an apple from the cart in front of her. His hand skims over the french fries, but he grabs a sandwich with a coy smile. "Too long?" "Endless." "And a tad clich‚?" He hands the cashier several bills. She steps in front of him and begins to walk. "It can be such drivel." He grins. "But well earned drivel." She concedes his point with a smile and leads him over to a table. "My cousin's graduation was five hours." He raises an eyebrow. "Outside." He winces. He pulls out her chair for her. He studies her for a moment before saying, "Its not about the ceremony anyway." * She's gone before him in the morning. Its rare, but it happens sometimes. He doesn't like it. The bed seems huge and he never eats breakfast. He showers, dresses, decides to pick up some coffee on the way rather than put a pot on. He notices an envelope sitting on the edge of the kitchen table. A bright pink sticky note glows up at him. He smiles. Want to help? Buy stamps. He interprets her crass handwriting and eyes the address scrawled across the envelope. He places it in his backpack with a grateful smile, then he swings by the drug store.