Heartbreak Warfare

CHAPTER 3: Requiem on Water

She wasn't what he expected. Not at all. She looked beautiful, like an angel, like the woman he remembered only ripened to perfection. He didn't look sick. She looked as handsome as ever. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. He wondered if he was seeing what he wanted to see, what he needed to see. And, so before he breathed, he blinked - hard. It didn't help. With clear eyes, he saw the same vision. She had aged very well. Her hair, still long, was pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her feet were clad in boots. Beautiful. Liz missed seeing Red so domestic, he looked handsome even in simple long sleeved sweatshirts that covered his hands and Hunter green yoga pants. On his shoulder was a tea towel, and a reading glass perched on his nose. He looked handsome. His right hand was wrapped around the door. His face, well, his face, was beaming. He seemed pleased and relieved. His slight dimples. How she had missed them.

"Come in. Please," she said, motioning with his left hand, dish towel flying; he took it as his own symbol of surrender and breathed. "Here. Let me take your coat."

She had yet to speak, but he needed to. She wanted to. She cleared her throat and coughed a bit. And, when he turned from hanging up her things on his coat rack, he finally did. "How are you, Lizzie?"

Her smile fell only briefly with the gravity of his question. She paused and searched his eyes, hers so soft upon him. "I am happy to see you..." she answered gently. He smiled, the smile she hasn't seen in months, a smile that reached his eyes, and straight thigh her heart. "Come into the kitchen. I am trying to bake some pies. It is not going according to plan.. Well not all..." He chuckled a bit.

He turned and began to walk, and then she saw it. A weakness. His gait was different; his movements were slow and careful. She reached out to him instinctively as if to support him, to assist, and then she realized what she was doing. She moved her arm back down to her side.

In the well-lit modern kitchen, she sat on a bar stool with a hot cup of coffee. He was facing her at the counter with flour, baking soda, blueberries, eggs and all manner of ingredients surrounding them. There seemed to be a loose method to his madness, and as he watched her - the sure turn of her hand, the occasional moistening of his lips, the shifting of his feet, the endearing tilt of his head, the marked concentration of his brow - she also listened. His words and his body told her a story she longed to hear and dreaded at the same time.

"You look really good, Red," she said, smiling, his hands kneading dough and his head down. "Really, really good." She watched his mouth move, his lips curve. He was so comfortable here, so calm and at peace. She could feel it all around her--the serenity. It was so shockingly different from the frenetic pace at which she lived, and she had yet to acclimate. Her heart pumped furiously, and her hands tapped her mug incessantly.

"Thank you, Lizzie," he answered her, truly grateful that she did not find fault with him. "And, you ... you look more beautiful than ever."

She looked up at him then, slight disbelief on her face, but she saw the truth in his countenance. He believed it. "Thanks," she whispered.

He turned back to his task and within minutes two blueberry pies were ready for the oven. She stood back to admire his work for a moment,and he, absently rubbing his floury hands on his dark pants. She saw the instant the pain hit him, taking his satisfied smile from her face, and she rose from her seat. He gripped the countertop and took a ragged breath. "Would you mind putting the pies in the oven for me, Lizzie? I have to sit for a little while," he said, as he began to move carefully along, using the counter for balance and assistance. She did reach for him this time, she had to: "Let me help you, Ray. Where do you want to go," she asked, her voice quaking ever so slightly.