Contentment

A Story by Florence Lucas

She likes this room, this dark blue room with the movie posters stuck up all over the walls and the gadgets that she'll never be able to work, and the little things that made it him.

She sits at the edge of the bed, pulling her heavy woolen scarf loose, messing her dark, wavy hair up. She's thankful for the scarf, since she hadn't brought a jacket and it's cold here.

Her heart beats in a queer, happy way that she isn't familiar with.

Correction, she had not been familiar with. Lately, it was becoming a habit.

She takes a deep breath. She likes this room, this dark blue room with the movie posters stuck up all over the walls and the gadgets that she'll never be able to work, and the little things that made it him.

She stops for a second, looks down at her hand, her multi-cloured nails which he said he really liked because it was just so her. She hadn't been as happy before him. Always with her head in a book, yes. Hungry for knowledge, and experiences? Yes. In love with the world, desperate to know all the little quirks had to offer? Absolutely. Longing to travel? All the time. So restless, so searching.

Content? Not at all.

She smirks to herself, thinks that she likes her new self a bit better, all told, and she hopes, prays almost, that the people surrounding her observe and regonize that the changes are his fault. She's more fun, more talkative. Okay, so she doesn't read as much, but that's fine.

She was every bit as in love with the world as she had been, it's just that now her world was smaller, more focused on a partuclar thing (~~person~~) and what was wrong with that?

Her legs no longer felt like they always had to be walking, to be kept constantly busy. Her heart no longer ached when she saw beatiful pictures of foreign, sunny lands. Her one solid dream was to visit Italy. He promised her they would, together.

His happy, dancey music plays in the background. His enthusiasm had charmed her. His blue eyes, his smile. The way he cared so much more than anyone else. The way they understood each other.

He adores her, he gives her everything, he keeps her warm, makes her laugh, holds her and runs his hands through her hair when she cries, does stupid things just to entertain her, tells her she's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. Which she will never believe, but it's always nice to hear.

The door to his room creaks open, and he steps in, smiles, asks if she's okay, does she want anything. She shakes her head no. He notices her slight shiver.

He walks to the wardrobe, pulls out an old hoodie and sets it down beside her. He unwraps her scarf, smiles down at her and pulls her arms up. She loves how he takes care of her. He pulls the hoodie over her, tells her to close her eyes. He puts his hand on her face and she waits. He kisses her.

She pulls him next to her, they exchange a look. He envelopes her in his arms and pulls them . She thinks this is exactly how a girl should be treated. The cynical part of her mind gives her a brief image of herself if anything ever happened to him; she flinched. She hated it, for the image and for the fact that she was weak for depending so much.

But really, is it that bad?

Potentially, yes. But for right now, she doesn't care.

Lying here, safe and warm and happy, for the first time ever, she feels content. She smiles to herself.

And if anyone asks, it's his fault.