Intricacy had never been a painless effort from the brunette. It wasn’t necessarily a rarity either. This side — the one where each emotion, along with reaction was authentic toward the devastation being shared between both of the individuals in the confinements of the restaurants whilst the hustle and bustle around them ran at speed of light. Ever since she greeted Mason, even with her frisky tone, later being drowned due to the whiskey in their grips, a side which had only been seen a handful of individuals was brought to life and was gracing Mason. It was all fun and games. This was the general gist of the conversations. Exuberant. Quite a few moments where Cleo twisted his arm and tested his tolerance underneath her grips and her enormous mouth for the gossip which caused her to not think about the reality of her circumstances. This was her general mantra into agreeing into this dinner. Yet, she had brought the depth, raw, authentic moment, to life. Something about this decision, realizing the change of the conversation’s tone, settled merrily in the pit of her stomach. All jokes aside, this was what they were experiencing.
Chesnut hues flickered upward to him, scrupulous whilst eyesight wandered momentarily over his features. The flicker of her heart at the comment, one she had never imagined to received, touched her soul immensely. The appreciation of his words didn’t go unnoticed by the brief illumination upon a singular mouth corner, only to disappear seconds later. “I’m not a saint,” she retorted in an utter. “I just realized… even if it hurts me to see him with another, it’s not me giving up. It’s the realization I wasn’t enough for him and someone else could love him more.” Affliction bounced from one word onto the next, aware of the flinching sensation overtaking her shoulders and the grip of her digits upon her lucent glass. Alcohol, it was perilously screaming to be consumed. With an instant swift of the cup to her lips, another shot of her whiskey had been downed, further continuing the increasing state of intoxication. “Then, you need to fight for her, Mason.” The brunette reassured him. All of the gossip aside. All of the previous twisting of his arms. If there was one thing Cleo could reassure him, motivate him to do, it was to fight for what he wanted. If it was his wife through and through, so be it. Stringent falsetto began again, gaping toward him, “Don’t let it happen. If you don’t want to feel that pain…” An instant pause, leaning against the crimson lumber, index finger finding his left pec to give him a strained poke. “Do… not let that happen.”
Perhaps, in this conversation, in another universe and moment of time, the brunette wished someone could sit down her own husband to give him a stern talking to. To bring the reality of his situation with her and encourage him to fight for it. The vision of Mason and Vanja’s wedding circulated in her mind in awe whilst Cleo entered into the ballroom. Everything had seemed to be planned down to the last inch possible. Compared to her wedding, not half-assed, but nothing of the extreme left her tongue-tied. Of course, the love being shared by the newly married couple caused her focus to feather away from the centerpieces or the never-ending vision of sweets in the far distance. No, it was the love of the couple who brought everyone together in this holy matrimony. The lack of her own husband at the wedding put her in the wrong spirits. People were going to investigate questions on the reason for Austin’s lack of whereabouts tonight. Work had been the answer shared to every person who dared to ask. Although she was aggrieved by her husband’s decision, it fluttered away once the realization of true love was being shared with her. This is the deeply rooted cause of Cleo’s sudden redirection of tone in their conversation. Not even bothered by her prior infuriation at his hair conversation. There was a motivate. A direction screeching within her to proceed with this drift of change. Nonetheless, he did make the mental moment to guide Mason toward her stylist at a different point, preferably a day where Cleo was sober. This wasn’t the Mason she remembered from his wedding.
Never in her ferocious did Cleo imagine this conversation erupting between them. Perhaps, they were far more kindred than ever imagined. All of these years, all of these words Cleo kept within the confines of her heart were finally able to be shared with another one. Someone who understood the feeling all too well. Two different ages. Two different individuals. One common ground. Love was a convoluted game. More mind tricks than it was worth. Then again, love, whether you want to endure it or not, the idea of belonging to another always soothed her soul. The potency of his response to her question caused Cleo’s back to press against the metal chair. Actuality. Admittance. Facts supported by another string of facts. The guilt felt evident through the trail of his words. Part of her felt for him. Things happened whether you had control of them but cheating wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t something she would lecture him with. The point of his words proved to Cleo on how aware Mason was over his damage. It’s why she festered in the utter silence. Chestnut hues only cared about the patron across from her. The rest of the silence fell into the background nose. Every once in a while, the sound of dishes pummeling in the background enter into her ear canal, other than not, it was only Mason. Undivided attention was always given from her in conversations. “I think I would’ve fought harder for him.” The admittance was authentic but far too strenuous on her tone. “I should’ve fought harder. Maybe he thought I gave up on him because I didn’t fight with him enough. I didn’t tell him enough times over how idiotic this decision to shut me out was.” It agonized her. All she wanted was Austin. All Austin wanted was to be separated. It’s been this way since then. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve reminded him on a daily how much I loved him. I’m afraid I didn’t tell him enough. I’m afraid I’m… the reason why Austin and I are the way we are.”
A fighter — added to the laundry list of things they had in common, they were turning out to be quite the pair. It wasn’t that he ever disliked Cleo, but at the start of this conversation, he had been expecting to be done within the hour, leaving with a curt goodbye and well-wishes for their respective parents. A favor they’d taken upon for their parents. What a burden it was to be from families that still concerned themselves with silly notions like image and professional relationships, but perhaps this time, he’d thank his mother for setting this dinner up. He poured another generous drink for himself, though his sloppy method indicated that he certainly didn’t need it.
“Fighting for her,” he began, glass already half-empty in his hands, “is the only thing I know how to do. The only goddamn thing I’m sure of anymore.” He leaned back into his seat, trying to relax, to quell the raging storm in his head and heart, but they’d gone on for so long now that he wasn’t sure if it was even worth a try. Mason closed his eyes. “And I have to, because —” he shook his head and leaned forward, his expression and voice turning angry and sour, “ — I don’t know. I don’t know anything. How she feels about this fucking situation, herself, me…” he trailed off, swallowing the spit that pooled in his mouth. “I — I used to think that if, or when I got caught, the worst thing in the world would be for her to hate me.” His voice was markedly tired, so different from his earlier shout. “But I know now that I was wrong. This is the worst. Not knowing. Sitting here, pretending that we never happened.”
But he didn’t need to tell Cleo that — she knew it, she was living it, in the uncertainty, the unspoken thoughts and words and emotions between her and her husband, concrete proof of the regret that always came with surrender. “Have you told him that?” Mason asked, without missing a beat. “Does he know? Because if you think it’s too late, it’s not. It’s never too late.” Quickly finishing his whiskey, he looked at her, eyes reddened and mind foggy from all the alcohol, but his words more genuine than they had been when he first sat down. “There’s a reason why you two are still married, right? Maybe he’s been waiting,” he speculated. “All this time. For you to say those words to him.” Mason inhaled, thinking about how he never got to say anything to Vanja, not even a single sorry or I still love you. “You can still fight for him.”
Between the two of them drinking the liquor like it was water on a hot day, the first handle had been emptied a long time ago, and the second was already half-gone. The server at Blackie’s walked over to the side of the table, coughing loudly and both of them turned to look at him. Excuse me, but the other… patrons are objecting to your, ah... noise, so, er, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. It was clear that they had not expected them to get this drunk — but, it wasn’t his or Cleo’s fault. “Fine,” Mason said, dropping two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table. “We’re leaving.” He stood up, stumbling as the chair screeched behind him and fell over, and the other diners turned, watching the commotion in a hush. “We’re taking this,” he said, grabbing the handle of whiskey and taking a swig, giving it to Cleo for her to drink as well.
