Rating: T

SYMMETRY

The real question on her mind was, for how long had he been thinking about the two of them like this? Days? Weeks? Months? When had the language in his mind moved from “her and him” onto “her with him”? The first time he’d taken her fingers in his own and placed his lips against the back of her hand, had he been imagining what it would feel like to place them against her mouth instead? His eyes had certainly left the possibility behind for her to pick up and take home with her that night. A gift that had seemed to be very intentional.

Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day he began to let those kisses linger against her skin just a second too long to be considered typical, to be considered normal. To be considered appropriate. The day he began to permanently dismantle the already impure innocence of their friendship, slowly and carefully, piece by piece by piece. As piece after piece was kicked away and left to fall between the cracks of the floorboards, forever lost, leaving their innocence without a way to ever be rebuilt.

That had seemed to be very intentional too.

The real question on his mind was, for how long had she been thinking about the two of them like this? Since the moment they met? When had the scene in her mind changed from “him and her” into “him with her”? The first time his knee had accidentally found hers under the surface of the table, had she been imagining what it would feel like to have her knees riding his hips as she lay on her back beneath his body instead? Her eyes had certainly offered up the fantasy for him to feast upon when he’d finally grown too hungry for her that night. An offering that had proven to be downright irresistible.

Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day she began to linger in the shop long after the closing hour. He was used to people turning spellbound under his eyes, but she had apparently found herself equally bewitched by how his lips and his tongue worked together as he talked. How he managed to whittle away the sharp edges of their language, and purr from the back of his throat with the gentle sounds of old romance as he promised “Ich werde morgen Abend zurückkommen.”

That had proven to be downright irresistible too.

But how had his thoughts compared to her own? How had his days compared to her own? Hours and hours of her life consumed by a deep red light and the harsh aroma of chemicals, only to finally emerge from the shadows with a colorless facsimile of their most beloved and their most feared client. The lines were all there, inhumanly precise, the angles of his face clear and unmistakable. Yet the photographs never developed faithfully.

They were not perfect. And to her immense frustration she knew they never, ever would be.

But she was determined to fix that. The world would eventually consider him to be made of more than just the black and the white.

But how had her thoughts compared to his own? How had her nights compared to his own? Hours and hours of his life consumed by a growing collection of little pink slips of paper covered in lines of soft, feminine words he’d already read a hundred times over, likely more. At first, the prurient intimacy he’d quickly developed with these notes was enough. The reveries were fresh and bright, and they were colorful enough to keep his attentions shackled to himself. But then they began to dull. And fade. And he needed them to be rawer, so much rawer, so he recklessly went at them with a knife, cutting and cutting and cutting until there was no more color left to bleed.

Suddenly, they were not enough. And to his immense frustration, he knew they never, ever would be.

But he was determined to fix that. The dimensions and the details of this woman who freely and skillfully manipulated the shape of his desires would eventually be rooted not in opinion, but in irrefutable fact.

Written for the reichblr-ficathon. Prompt: "Symmetry"