⠀⠀⠀──ˋˏ ★ with @edward-weiss
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ WHERE: WEISS MANOR , JUNE 12TH
it was not the first dinner edward had missed, nor would it be the last.
their marriage had come with a learning curve: never overestimate what you can’t predict. the honeymoon phase, she was learning, did not end politely—it just stopped happening. and when she reached for reasons, they never stayed still—cowboys, mechanical bulls, country music—anything but the memory of her going home alone that night.
marriage, nari had discovered, inspired a great many people to confuse access with understanding and the distinction mattered more than she cared to admit. his calendar was familiar enough to her now. she knew which obligations he tolerated, which he enjoyed, and which he attended solely because the alternative would create a greater inconvenience later. years of observation had made such things easy.
one could know a man's habits, his preferences, the shape of his schedule, even the precise hour he preferred his morning coffee, and still find oneself surprised by him.
it was unlike edward to offer no explanation. that was the part she found herself returning to. not the missed dinner. not even the disappointment. the absence of explanation. curious.
she had eventually and without protest, abandoned the expectation of company and retreated to the balcony instead. there were, after all, many ways to dine alone. some more honest than others. this particular version half a serving of white rice, an expensive bottle opened for no occasion whatsoever, and the type of comfortable silence that did not demand attention.
the city glitters below with its usual confidence and spectacle as she pours herself a top-off of the pinot noir. the skyline performs its usual trick of pretending distance does not exist. she’s fascinated by the way it looks in her crystal glassware: tiny and distorted in a luscious ruby liquid chiffon.
mrs. weiss does not turn when footsteps sound behind her.
reproach could wait if it proved necessary. besides, certainty was in notably short supply this evening. only then does she glance over her shoulder, a small smile finding its place with practiced ease. soft. familiar. dangerously forgiving. "long day?" the question arrives without accusation but with far less dignity she hoped he would write off.
she lounges now in her silk robe, glass of wine held loosely between her fingers. she was in desperate need of a cigarette, or that familiar feeling of him within reach—the way her nails drag lightly along his scalp. a small, grounding habit that made the world feel briefly stable.
for the first time all evening, she finds herself, in a sense, lighter.
