Koharu Izaki (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
willbeurprincess) wrote2014-06-13 02:44 am
willbeurprincess) wrote2014-06-13 02:44 am
18 Months | Mayfield
Her eyes open to an empty space on the bed beside her. It must be raining, is her first thought. For all her insistence on waking up with him, to help him out with morning chores, she wakes up hours later on days like this. Up on one elbow, Koharu can see the drizzle and dark clouds and she sighs. Winter was worse, because she woke up cold then, curled in a ball in the space where his warmth had been.
Her morning routine changes only a little. The shower comes first, because he'll have done all the morning chores. On days when she wakes up with him, she puts on something worn and slightly tougher than the dresses and skirts she prefers. It doesn't matter what she wears when chickens scurry around her feet and a goat bleats for treats she might have tucked in pockets or the apron she sometimes wears. Those mornings she remembers her silly determination when first faced with growing her own food, creating her own world. The rough hands and falling into bed at night without even changing her clothes. She remembers him pulling the blanket over her and a kiss on her cheek as she drifted. Its those cold mornings that she loves her life, with all its flaws, because it's all she has and better than anything she could have had, if she were real. She works for her life every day and it's real in a way life could never have been.
It's not one of those mornings though. Rushing herself to join him would just be silly. Today she enjoys a shower, cool to prepare for the humid heat that will come. Her mind isn't idle, thinking ahead to things she wants to do, people she had planned to visit. A basket of plums is waiting to head to Cuba. Poland mended a dress of hers. It's still sitting on his side table in his living room where she forgot it, too busy gossiping to remember why she had even come. She'd discovered a pile of scrap cloth under a blanket in the closet and she had remembered how Ukraine had promised to teach her how to make a quilt.
Braiding her bangs back, she wonders what would be best to do today. The drizzle is letting up and through the window, she can see him wandering through their small fields, inspecting their plants from under a small umbrella. A smile curls her lips, fond, before she pulls her gaze back to her reflection. Her hand presses against the glass, the metal of her ring clinking there before she shakes her head. She doesn't think she looks twenty. The face before her looks the same as the one she has always known.
Of course the pictures on the mantle of their fireplace say something different. The fake picture of her Mayfield wedding, the startling picture of a wedding she would never attend, the real picture of a wedding a mere six months old. Every picture shows a slightly different version of herself, even if it was just how her face was shaped by her hair. She's shaped and changed by her world and it's strange to think she'll still be in this house in two more years, looking at pictures of herself and wondering at the subtle differences.
She stops to look at them, for just a moment, vanity perhaps or mere fond memories. The rye wreath is starting to show its age, brittle at the edges but the sash her mother made her hasn't yet faded. The embroidery is too bright, the colors too vivid. It'll always be that bright, she thinks. Or hopes.
The rain is picking up again and her umbrella was lent to...Well someone. She can't recall exactly who at this moment. So she reaches for one, and it's there, solid in her hand. She's learned the careful limits of her power here. It's careful skirting, too fast too far and it'll be a repeat of that day when Lithuania found her asleep in the middle of a fully furnished study that hadn't been there the day before.
The rain patters on the umbrella that was suddenly there as she closes the door behind her. Even that small noise brings their dogs rushing over, too well trained by now to jump on her but still lavishing affection with slobbering kisses. He lifts his head, spots her, smiles.
She'll be over there in a moment, always asking what he's doing, what she can do, marveling at the things he knows and the things she learns. For now, she enjoys the rain.
Her morning routine changes only a little. The shower comes first, because he'll have done all the morning chores. On days when she wakes up with him, she puts on something worn and slightly tougher than the dresses and skirts she prefers. It doesn't matter what she wears when chickens scurry around her feet and a goat bleats for treats she might have tucked in pockets or the apron she sometimes wears. Those mornings she remembers her silly determination when first faced with growing her own food, creating her own world. The rough hands and falling into bed at night without even changing her clothes. She remembers him pulling the blanket over her and a kiss on her cheek as she drifted. Its those cold mornings that she loves her life, with all its flaws, because it's all she has and better than anything she could have had, if she were real. She works for her life every day and it's real in a way life could never have been.
It's not one of those mornings though. Rushing herself to join him would just be silly. Today she enjoys a shower, cool to prepare for the humid heat that will come. Her mind isn't idle, thinking ahead to things she wants to do, people she had planned to visit. A basket of plums is waiting to head to Cuba. Poland mended a dress of hers. It's still sitting on his side table in his living room where she forgot it, too busy gossiping to remember why she had even come. She'd discovered a pile of scrap cloth under a blanket in the closet and she had remembered how Ukraine had promised to teach her how to make a quilt.
Braiding her bangs back, she wonders what would be best to do today. The drizzle is letting up and through the window, she can see him wandering through their small fields, inspecting their plants from under a small umbrella. A smile curls her lips, fond, before she pulls her gaze back to her reflection. Her hand presses against the glass, the metal of her ring clinking there before she shakes her head. She doesn't think she looks twenty. The face before her looks the same as the one she has always known.
Of course the pictures on the mantle of their fireplace say something different. The fake picture of her Mayfield wedding, the startling picture of a wedding she would never attend, the real picture of a wedding a mere six months old. Every picture shows a slightly different version of herself, even if it was just how her face was shaped by her hair. She's shaped and changed by her world and it's strange to think she'll still be in this house in two more years, looking at pictures of herself and wondering at the subtle differences.
She stops to look at them, for just a moment, vanity perhaps or mere fond memories. The rye wreath is starting to show its age, brittle at the edges but the sash her mother made her hasn't yet faded. The embroidery is too bright, the colors too vivid. It'll always be that bright, she thinks. Or hopes.
The rain is picking up again and her umbrella was lent to...Well someone. She can't recall exactly who at this moment. So she reaches for one, and it's there, solid in her hand. She's learned the careful limits of her power here. It's careful skirting, too fast too far and it'll be a repeat of that day when Lithuania found her asleep in the middle of a fully furnished study that hadn't been there the day before.
The rain patters on the umbrella that was suddenly there as she closes the door behind her. Even that small noise brings their dogs rushing over, too well trained by now to jump on her but still lavishing affection with slobbering kisses. He lifts his head, spots her, smiles.
She'll be over there in a moment, always asking what he's doing, what she can do, marveling at the things he knows and the things she learns. For now, she enjoys the rain.