He continued to stare at her blankly, waiting for a reaction. Although, his stare was hardly blank, considering a slew of thoughts began to sift through his head. It had been a little since he was this close to ex-wife — since he was able to see her features up close and at this moment, her manic expression. Nothing was different. Years later and Stevie still couldn’t hold down a drink (which was very evident from the smell of alcohol on her breath). Granted, the woman he knew preferred not to go out. She chose studying over premiere parties and their old New York apartment instead of the city’s lively streets. Theoretically, he was looking at somebody new, and her overdressed demeanor expressed that. He pulled his jacket over his shoulders.
“Stevie,” Ezra started. Out of all the possible emotions, he least expected the girl to be angry. He was bracing himself for an awkward hello, or even a roll of the eyes — but not a line of heated words and eventually slaps. Attempted slaps, anyways. His lips parted in an attempt to calm down the wild woman, but he was interrupted by her slow swings.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His eyes were wide, his expression laced with shock. The truth to the situation was simple: Ezra didn’t know what to do. The brunet didn’t mean to insult Stevie with his vague hello. If anything, he was unsure of how to approach her. The last time he saw her was her mother’s funeral, and even that, he debated attending. Everything with and about Stevie felt wrong. Saying her name, talking about her, looking at the forbidden tattoo on his wrist… Ezra spent so many years loving her, but it took less than half of that for him to rip their marriage apart. Ezra’s ignorant choices made it difficult to greet her with more than a hello — no matter how many times the artist circled his thoughts at a drunken three A.M.
“Fuck you, Stevie.” Ezra’s face scrunched in slight frustration. “I mean, Jesus Christ., what the fuck has gotten—”
His confused rampage was cut short by Stevie’s ambitious movements (for somebody who was not very steady on their feet to begin with) and eventually lack of balance. He had only drunken a small sum of alcohol, but for Ezra too, watching her fall was like slow motion.
Hastily throwing his arms around her, Ezra frantically caught hold of the girl before she hit the wooden ground. She felt light in his grip, and it was an effortless act for him to hoist her body upwards, and secure her footing by wrapping his arm around her waist. “Are you alright?” Ezra raised his eyebrows. His features screamed a slather of emotions: annoyance, frustration… but there was also a hint of concern.
pink burgeoning across his cheek; three jagged abrasions slightly raising the skin.
crude and inexact, as her fingernails had only just nicked him among the couple of
swings she’d taken. if the blow had actually registered, she was sure that’d be a red
flush on his face in the shape of her palm, and her own would be on fire as well. instead,
it was merely three faint lines; here for a moment, gone in a minute or two. visible only if
you were as close as she.
she’d seen the floor (though she could, no doubt, absorb a fall and feel it in the form of
bruises the next morning), possibly even mentally prepared herself, before her velocity
was snatched from it and wrapped up in ezra’s arms. his words from just moments before,
as she’d been attempting slaps, now streamed into her thoughts, and she wanted to be
mad – livid, even, for it seemed to be the one emotion she had control over. her anger
then was a choice, just as much as it was a byproduct of her own intoxication & ezra’s
curt hello, or his succeeding fuck you. hatred was easy, clean. something to be both
enacted and worn, the way her face now took on the dazed expression of bewilderment.
hatred was calculated and easy to sort out, unlike love and lingering emotion. — yet all
she saw was pink, in the form of three lines.
his arms lifting her, steadying her, to avoid a crash onto the floor were faint sensations.
physical actions that happened outside of her body and her stream of consciousness, like
they were happening to someone else entirely. she wasn’t really there, nor was she really in
her ex-husband’s grasp. that wasn’t his arm around her waist, because it wasn’t her own
body at all. it wasn’t stephanie that’d reacted instinctually, stumbling against him, hands
gripping shoulders for support, and that wasn’t her hand leaving the the gentle material of
his jacket to touch his face. the way light traveled instantaneously, moments passed,
though they lingered long after they’d gone – everything happening at once, and
everything happening so far away. slow motion. her fingertips brushed his cheek,
softer than before, over where she’d clawed him & she wondered if he felt it too: the
feeling of her skin touching his, and his touching back. it was hot – her skin, the air.
his breath.
just for a moment— and then that moment ended, and stevie was pulling away. in such
proximity, she’d debated whether or not to get an actual smack in. there was no way
she’d miss when she was close enough to smell him in a way that transcended memory,
and brought her back from mere reminiscence to the present: he was really here, not just
in a dream, and she was really doing these things. a wave of nausea overcame her as she
pushed against his chest. perhaps a bit too violently, causing her to stumble back a few
dangerously swaying steps – counterproductive to why he’d put his arms around her
in the first place.
❛ i’m fine, i– don’t touch me.
the look in his eyes – in that brief moment they’d been together again – had said it all.
ezra had always been so easy to rile; the concern in his eyes so quick to calm him down.
she wasn’t sure how different or the same he could be, however. people could be as
constant as they were susceptible to change. she certainly had been. even so, she still
found it hard to meet his gaze, as she was afraid of what she’d see, and afraid of what
it’d do to her. after all… hatred was easy, clean. something she could settle for and
something she may have even preferred. it was straightforward to deal with & would
let her know where they stood. but that damn look in his eyes left her feeling dizzier
than any amount of alcohol could.
there was a man watching them now. judging by the look in his eyes alone, stevie could
guess that he was wondering what was going on, wondering whether or not he should
step in. the thought only nauseated her further – the idea of someone assuming anything
about her situation. nobody fucking understood her. nobody knew. like a child, she felt the
immediate impulse to go over there and slap him, too. stevie’s blood had been quick to
boil; the fire beneath even quicker to sizzle out. it left her with the vague sense of guilt for
her impulsive behavior, and the embarrassment that’d been there all along: the bare bones
of her emotional range. the same blubbering emotional range that prompted her so quickly
to tears, though she refused to let them prick now. with a few ragged breaths and another
step back to regain her balance, she spoke. her tone had arms reaching out to him, in a
way she couldn’t fight – just as her own arms physically sought him then. she never had
been able to make up her mind, had she?
❛ —wait, no, come here. i need you. i don’t want that… looking at me…
you’re gonna buy me another drink. i just feel a little bit dizzy, or… something,
so i don’t want to fall… don’t fucking touch me.
she was indignant. obviously. if anything, that seemed to be her base emotion. still, she
felt that panic rise within her of wanting to seem more sober than she was, while feeling
her mind’s grasp on clearheadedness slip further down the drain. her words contradicted
themselves as stevie grasped onto him once more.
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