Inkchanger

3: Eric

Zara artfully tweaked the aesthetic of the pantry after everything had been put away. Eric tabulated food incomes and projections on the laptop. Minutes oozed between them, thick with that "I'm so not paying attention to you, but I really am" vibration. Every so often one of them would peek over their shoulder to see if the other was looking. They weren't. At least, not just then.

Eventually, Eric finished his tabulations and clicked the computer shut. Rubbing his screen-tired eyes and unable to delay his departure any longer, he decided to play his ace. 

"Hey Z," he said, standing up and stretching. "Dave came back from his run with a box of pastels he picked up on accident. He was going to throw them out, but I convinced him they'd be worth trading." He took a couple of long-legged strides over to her side of the room. "I can have 'em to you by dinnertime, if you want."

Zara's posture shifted slightly. Art supplies were hard to come by in the Heights, and they were a sure-fire way to get her attention. Give her some spray paint or poster board, and she'd light up like Christmas. It was like talking to a completely different person – the dark waif would evaporate and this holy virtuoso appeared in her place. Pencil, crayon, paint, paper, canvas, overpass - it didn't matter. All that was important was getting the art out. The promise of new supplies should've caused at least a muted squee. But she didn't even turn around.

Maintain... No good going all soft for fancy crayons. 

She tried to telepathically suggest that he fuck off and leave her alone. 

Rather of fucking off, though, he leaned on the wall next to her, arms crossed in what he hoped was cool-guy fashion, and tried again. "I know you're running low after that last batch of florals."

In fact, she hadn't had anything to work with at all in weeks. Underneath the ice-queen exterior, Zara was practically leaping at the idea of pastels, but she didn't want Eric to just give them to her. Gifts meant obligation; obligation meant... the sort of situation she wanted to avoid. She didn't want him getting all soppy-romantic and thinking things were any different than she intended. 

"Thanks, but I'll get them myself," she said distantly, appearing engrossed in making sure the ramen packets lined up. "I've got a couple bucks and some Twinkies saved up." 

Eric's face scrunched in annoyance at the brush-off, but he pushed down the frustration. It was the same every time: flirtation met with a stone-cold shoulder. Discouraging, to say the least. Even he thought that eventually he'd take the hint and pursue an easier target – he certainly had his pick - but he couldn't shake the hum in his heart when he looked at her. Not knowing the firecracker genius she was. Not seeing how her hard edges fit his own. Not after everything that happened last fall.

He sighed softly and ran a hand through his hair, sliding his back down the wall to sit heavily on a milk crate. Surprised at the show of defeat, Zara finally turned to face him. All the lights had gone out in his face, and he stared at a spot on the floor; he suddenly looked older and more exhausted than he'd ever let on. Maybe she'd pushed too far. 

Or just far enough.

"What?" she said, a little more harshly than she'd meant to. 

He paused before answering, trying to find the exact right words to say a novel's worth of emotion. Eventually, he whispered, "Why do we dance around like this, Zara? I thought you felt the same way I do, but you push back so hard. After the gazebo..."

Zara blushed hard as the memory of cool grass and slick sweat jumped into her mind, filling her up with remnants of sticky emotional fluff and sensuous urgency. The phantom whisper of sincere promises and sweet adoration echoed in her ears, calling up the hazy pinky-purple glow of being held so perfectly safe that not even time could find you. She could even smell a wisp of lake water mixed with manly soap.