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23 January 2009 @ 11:19 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 267: Question 267  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1172


In medias res.


There was something about her youth that he felt guilty about drinking. Normally, younger women didn’t bother him at all, for while he was not a pervert, he still didn’t mind sleeping with people who were decades younger than he was. There was something fanciful about younger generations, their looks, their preferences, their imaginations, that he sometimes, occasionally, took a liking to. Only if they were old enough, though, only if they could judge for themselves what they wanted, only if it was right.

Some days he looked at Marianne before she woke, and simply smiled at her, happy to taste her name in his mouth as he went to wake her for breakfast. There were other moments, as if reading some unconscious desire only evident in her sleep, he would rise, and leave her alone until he himself had finished eating. When the emotion took a hold of them, as their heart rates soared and eyelids fluttered, his fingers would flicker piano player style across her skin in an earnest search for the right buttons, the right set of touches that would encircle her mind and make her his. As they started out life together, he loved her, and years later, he loved her still.

Sid sat together with the girl on her couch, a creaky construction of woven wood stacked thickly with ornately decorated pillows of various materials and a thick tie-dyed blanket. A student of English literature and of painting, her apartment, though small, was filled with rich things, books by Dickens, about Thatcher, little paintings and polished coloured stones. The girl herself had ruddy copper red hair and freckles that danced all the way around her china pale face, and beyond. Her emotions, as he had learnt in the first few days of their affair, were fluted emotions, beautiful states that raised her to quick tempest that could melt just as easily into happiness or joy, without being cause for concern.

There was one night he remembered clearly, as he did with so many of the moments they had spent together. She was laughing, pulling on a polka dotted skirt and tight, shiny black heals, slipping on a puffy sleeved shirt and tying a gaudy ribbon in her hair which had been teased to fuzzy extremes. All the while, she looked at him, laughing at him, enjoying the togetherness in the air. Then, all of a sudden, once the bow in her hair was completed, she stopped and looked at him seriously, even though her arms were still up in the air, frozen in a motion, going from sudden activeness to relative inactivity. Marianne kissed him then, trying to mime seriousness into the situation before leading him out of the door and down the street, moving towards the dance hall all the while, where they were going to meet some friends for drinks and dancing. In looking back on the situation decades later, after the walls of normality had fallen and his citadel had been smitten into the dust of memories, that moment, he realised, was one of those times that made him feel better for having had her, than to never had her at all.

Leaning forward in his seated position, with silent movements and artful dexterity, the man began to undo the buttons on the girl’s pale pink cotton blouse. The top button went first, then the second from the top and so on until he reached the middle. Seeming to change his mind, the Medical Examiner stopped, restarting from the bottom, and proceeded to work his way up, back to the middle until there was only one button left that held both sides of the material together. The girl undid the final button, growing impatient with his teasing, meticulous hands, and shrugged off the shirt, throwing it carelessly on the floor.

“Shhh.” she soothed him one morning when he came home after a long night, shaking with exhaustion and frustration, knowing he could be something more, but not quite knowing where to put himself. Slipping off her shirt, his wife lay chest down on the bed, her back up towards the ceiling, waiting patiently for him to play his fingers across her flesh. He teased her offering by slowly and tiredly peeling off every article of clothing on his body, lying down next to her once this task was finished and shifting onto his side so he could reach her. The Chef managed to trace the outline of Minnesota on the middle of her spine before succumbing to sleep, his head resting on one of her outstretched arms.

As he lay her down to rest, the gears of his mind whined with restlessness and trivial resistance, but he kept going, never to be toppled, always steeling himself for a moment of reprieve. There would be a slight pause afterwards where he would be able to hide away in his own mind and resolve his problems while she looked at him and touched his hair, asking him cautious questions and trying to uncover his past because, perhaps, it drove her to do things she liked to do.

“Do you love me Sid?” Marianne questioned as she climbed into bed with him, the house silent, free of the whines of hungry children and the clash of toy trucks because both of the boys had just been fed and put to sleep. This question that she posed him, her question, it was not something desired to be offensive, intrusive or of a dastardly and infectious nature. It was simply just one of those things his wife liked to ask, one of the small buttons he had managed to discover and trip in his erstwhile explorations of her mind and body.

“Every moment, every minute, every day.” he said, and made to continue when she did not stop his mouth from moving.

“Every second, every year, every decade, every millisecond, every...” Sid finished, and there she stopped him, shutting him up with a kiss and a touch, a simple explanation of need and desire.

“You make love like Romans make history, Sid. You have a lot of history, don’t you?” the girl whispered as they lay together on the bed, hair matted and fingers tangled together. She made to continue, but the Medical Examiner reached over, freed one hand and brought her face close, shutting her lips with a kiss, something he had learnt, it seemed like, lifetimes ago. The girl was a writer, a thinker, a painter, an artist, and he knew what she meant. There was a difference between making love, and real love, a difference between having a wife with red hair and sleeping with someone because they reminded him of the woman with red hair, and they both knew it. It didn’t matter though, it was explainable enough, what made him, him, was his past, and the girl, she liked him, and she didn’t mind what had brought him there to her at that moment, just that he was there at that moment, at all.
 
 
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