Chins up, smiles on.

    “Oh sure.  You  Capitol  women are probably a real      handful for an idiot from here, but uh — we District      men are a different breed entirely.”

He’s showing his best imitation of her voice, smirking all the while as  he  brings  a glass to his lips and keeps his gaze fixed firmly on   the awful woman across the room. And he’s his typical obnoxious self,  bold  enough  to throw a confident wink in her direction from where  he’s  laid  back  on  the  couch,  feet up on the coffee table, clothing askew,  drink in hand  –  everything he knows will piss her off.

         “If you don’t think you can handle it,  sweetheart,           it’s okay. not every woman’s cut out for the task.”

I could say the same for you.

Just you wait.

  There’s a nervous lick of his lips,  and he’s about to make some witty   remark to try and deflect from a far-too-personal situation. Answering   truthfully would require contemplating feelings and emotions, and it’s   something he’s not yet prepared to do  –   at least not until he’s got a   few measures of liquor in his system.   It’s a saving grace that before     he can utter a word, she’s kissing him and he’s kissing back, happily   taking the  distraction  from the  honest moment he’s too afraid;  too     cowardly to have.

Hands fumble,  faster now,  and he wants to carry her to the bedroom but he knows his shaking hands and his clumsy lack of  balance  would make it too dangerous.  He’s too embarrassed to admit that he’s thought about what it’d be like when she finally came  home  to  12;  to him.  He’s played the scenario in his head a thousand times like some ever-changing movie; weighed  every  possibility  and considered every step he could take. He’s imagined them colliding;  fumbling in  the hallway before the door is even closed,  and then moving  desperate and  fast against the nearest wall or collapsing on the stairs.   He’s imagined hesitation —  perhaps later, after dinner,  when  the  kids  have gone home and they’re left to figure out how   to fall back into their old ways,  and  maybe he’d do something stupid like kiss  her  on the couch and let the rest of the  night  unravel  however  she wished.  And he’s imagined taking matters into his own hands; picking her up as soon as she’s through the door and carrying her to his bed  – to hell with the kids and  dinner  and  a  happy  family;  he’d make her stay in his arms until the middle  of the next day when they can’t avoid the kids or life any longer,  because she’s been gone  too  long  and maybe he’s missed her and maybe he’s  angry  that she took her  damn time  when she knew (she must’ve known) that the thought of facing the loneliness of an empty house again was unbearable and  terrifying and he wanted her there. He wanted  this  newfound,  dysfunctional  train-wreck of  a  family that he’s somehow ended up with far too late in life.

    It’s the latter scenario that he liked best, but it doesn’t matter now,     because he’s not the kind of man to sweep her off her feet.  It’s a     fantasy,  and a pathetic one made for some fancy, romantic hero.     He’s a mess, so maybe all they can ever do is collide.

❛ oh? i don’t tend to get out O F T E N, but even so, i’m   CERTAIN i’d remember you if i’d have come across you. ❜ 

      ❝ Well what a tremendous shame! Come along          then, we can still turn this around if we try our          hardest!·❞

I mean it, Effie. Next time…. jus’ watch yourself, sweetheart. No more Mr Nice Guy.

    “Exactly, Effie! He’s a child. They’re children. And      he thinks he has the right to— God damn it. Screw      this. I am gonna kill him.”

He’s pacing now, a deep scowl on his features, fists clenching and releasing over and over again,   just itching to slam into something. Anything.  But not her. It’s one of his worst fears: hurting her when he has no control;  when he wakes, screaming and thrashing from some  terrifying  nightmare or she catches him mid-hallucination in a fight with his demons.  What  happens  when he mistakes her for a ghost and tries to fight;  swings  his  fist or reaches for his knife? Where do they go from there? How does he live with himself when he hurts her?  It’s something that feels almost inevitable, but she’s so warm and soft by his side at night and he’s too  selfish to send her away.  He knows he could get by alone again if he had to,  but he doesn’t want to.  He wants her there.  She keeps the loneliness and the cold at bay. God help him if he ever hurts her.