He should have never left her side, he knows, though the circumstances that had separated had been beyond his control.
Because he can’t argue all her points. He doesn’t know if, in these years, she’s borne children, or loved, or been loved. He doesn’t know what has transpired, what kind of life she’s lived.
But he knows it’s her. He knows her name because he’s murmured it a thousand times, because it haunts him, follows him. He knows her skin, the odd translucence matched in his, the horrifying delicacy of her existence.
But how does he convince her of a story to which he only knows part of?
(Your name is Adaline, and I love you.)
Her question breaks his heart, because belief isn’t the word for it. He has no need for belief, for faith, because the knowledge of his love for her (however it might manifest – this, he does not delve into) is a bone-deep thing, it was formed in that dead woman’s womb as their limbs tangled inside her, and the love never left. It changed, maybe, took a shape that it shouldn’t, but at the core of it, it’s love, it’s love, because she is Adaline and he loves her and he will always love her.
But that’s only part of the story.
“Of course,” he says, “Tabytha loved you. Garbage loved you.”
Their brief, stupid parents – giving them life only to walk into the ocean and end theirs. But it was love nonetheless.
“You are so easy to love, Adaline,” he says. As if maybe he could say her name enough that she’d believe it.
He is close to her but he does not touch her because he does not trust himself, he is shaking and confused and if he started he might not stop, and that is not the point here, the point is she is Adaline and he doesn’t know this other name, Charity, but he knows it’s wrong.
“Please,” he says, begging, though what for, he can’t say, not really.
Because he can’t argue all her points. He doesn’t know if, in these years, she’s borne children, or loved, or been loved. He doesn’t know what has transpired, what kind of life she’s lived.
But he knows it’s her. He knows her name because he’s murmured it a thousand times, because it haunts him, follows him. He knows her skin, the odd translucence matched in his, the horrifying delicacy of her existence.
But how does he convince her of a story to which he only knows part of?
(Your name is Adaline, and I love you.)
Her question breaks his heart, because belief isn’t the word for it. He has no need for belief, for faith, because the knowledge of his love for her (however it might manifest – this, he does not delve into) is a bone-deep thing, it was formed in that dead woman’s womb as their limbs tangled inside her, and the love never left. It changed, maybe, took a shape that it shouldn’t, but at the core of it, it’s love, it’s love, because she is Adaline and he loves her and he will always love her.
But that’s only part of the story.
“Of course,” he says, “Tabytha loved you. Garbage loved you.”
Their brief, stupid parents – giving them life only to walk into the ocean and end theirs. But it was love nonetheless.
“You are so easy to love, Adaline,” he says. As if maybe he could say her name enough that she’d believe it.
He is close to her but he does not touch her because he does not trust himself, he is shaking and confused and if he started he might not stop, and that is not the point here, the point is she is Adaline and he doesn’t know this other name, Charity, but he knows it’s wrong.
“Please,” he says, begging, though what for, he can’t say, not really.