She hears the shatter of ceramic against kitchen tile, and calls without looking up from her book, “Carol? Are you okay?”
She doesn’t get an answer, but she hears Carol mutter something that she thinks sounds like, “damn mug,” so she turns another page and keeps reading. She debates for a moment getting up to help, but the kitchen is small and it’s one mug by the sound of it, and the only thing she’d be doing if she went into the kitchen now is crowding Carol and probably stepping on a fractured piece. She turns another page and waits for Carol to answer her as she listens for the shuffle of Carol’s feet that tell her Carol’s getting the broom.
Instead, she hears a sniffle, and immediately her senses are on alert. “Carol?” She calls again, placing her bookmark on her page and turning on the couch towards the kitchen. Still no answer, and she grows more worried with each passing silent second. She strains her ears, listening for anything that indicates Carol just has a cold, but instead she hears what sounds like a muffled deep breath, as though Carol was pressing her hands into her mouth to quiet herself, and she’s on her feet in an instant.
She approaches the kitchen the way you would approach a wounded animal caught in a trap. She doesn’t bother calling Carol again, because the closer she gets the more clearly she can hear soft, broken sobs, and she’s doused in ice-cold water. Her mind frantically retraces the steps of the day: waking up and pressing a morning kiss to Carol’s slightly damp forehead. Choosing an outfit, Carol asleep behind her. Going to work and meeting Carol for lunch, her lips curving into a tired smile at the sight of Therese. Asking how Carol’s day has been and receiving a tired but not out of the ordinary “Fine.” Going back to work feeling warm and annoyed at the idea of not getting home until six. Getting home, and finding Carol on the sofa, reading, a cigarette dangling off her fingers. Carol looking up and smiling at her, Therese kissing her, and Therese settling down to read while Carol went to the kitchen to get a drink. In the time it takes for her to cross into the kitchen she’s run through the day twice, three times, and she can’t find anything wrong with it at all.
Carol is knelt on the floor, bent over a broken mug—it’s Therese’s favorite mug, Therese notes distantly—and her shoulders are heaving with the effort of keeping her sobs silent. Therese can’t see her face from where she’s standing, so she kneels on the floor, careful to avoid any sharp shards, and touches a hesitant hand to Carol’s arm. “Carol?” She asks again, her voice as gentle as she can make it without giving away her confusion at what is happening.
Carol jumps a little at her touch, but she doesn’t raise her head. She takes another deep breath, and Therese winces at the small hitch in her breath as she does so. She still doesn’t respond, so Therese scoots a bit closer, close enough that she can see Carol’s face, her eyes shut tightly and her face red with tears. She gently pulls Carol away from the shards on the floor, sits down on the floor so she can pull Carol into her arms, and just sits there to wait. She’s reeling inside; Carol doesn’t cry often, and Therese can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen Carol cry. There’s no ‘right’ reason for crying, but each time Carol has wept before Therese had understood why: the first was when she learned that Harge was trying to get full custody, the second was when Therese saw a weird, watery glint in Carol’s eyes as Therese rejected her, the third time when Abby slipped on ice on her way to a date with Carol and Carol couldn’t contact her for hours, and the fourth when Therese got pneumonia and passed out during dinner. But this mug isn’t the most expensive cup they have, and Therese only likes it because it’s simple and, in other words, replaceable.
She thinks this, ruminates about what could possibly be making her Carol cry, and listens as Carol’s breathing slowly calms down, as her sobs slowly turn into sniffles and sniffles slowly turn into deep breathing. She runs her hands down Carol’s arms soothingly and doesn’t say anything as Carol leans into her arms, trying to force the warmth from her body into Carol’s.
When Carol finally speaks, her voice is watery but stable. “I’m alright, darling.”
Scoffing would be decidedly the wrong action here, Therese decides. “Okay,” she says instead. “Do you want to talk about it later?”
Carol is silent for long enough that Therese thinks she’s just going to clam up and tell Therese nothing, which isn’t out of the ordinary for Carol. Ever since they had a talk about openness and trust, though, Carol has been doing a lot better at that. Therese is just deciding that she’ll let Carol off the hook this time—she’s still feeling shaken at Carol’s tears—when Carol lets out a long breath, not tiredly or exasperatedly, just to steady herself, and says, “Yes.” She turns in Therese’s arms and presses a light kiss to her lips, and Therese lets the moment water itself down as soft lips touch hers.
Carol pulls away, still twisted in Therese’s arms, eyes still red but breathing much calmer as she asks, “Shall we have dinner?” Therese nods, but is reluctant to let Carol go. It’s a different sensation, Therese finds, holding Carol in her arms instead of letting Carol hold her. She likes it. She feels safe in Carol’s arms, but there is a certain fragility in Carol letting herself be hold that makes her feel trusted, loved. Tells her she is Carol’s safe haven just as much as Carol is hers.
Eventually Therese lets Carol go, because she can tell by the mirth in Carol’s eyes that she’s about to start teasing Therese, which is a sign that Carol is feeling better. The tiled floor also begins to feel cold against her skin, so she stands and retrieves the broom, silently cleaning up the broken mug while Carol takes out their dinner.
They eat quietly, though that too is normal. Therese likes the quiet, likes the time Carol allows her to spend in her own head, and though they speak, Carol doesn’t push her to vocalize all of her thoughts now the way she used to. They’ve developed a language of looks and touches, and where it fails, they always have the time before bed to use their words. Therese likes that Carol doesn’t have to know what she’s thinking all the time, and she likes that Carol continues to share what she is thinking to Therese whenever she gets the chance. They’ve adapted and molded to one another, and the mystery they offer one another is enough to keep life enticing and each other intriguing.
But sometimes Therese wishes she could crawl into the folds of Carol’s brain and see for herself what she is thinking. She wants to burrow a place for herself in Carol’s thoughts so that she never has to see or hear of Carol’s sorrow without knowing exactly how she can be the solution. She picks at her food, and swallows the pasta without much thought. Carol doesn’t seem to be tasting the food much either, from the way she shifts the food around on her plate and chews robotically.
“I’ve brought a new book for you,” Therese says, swallowing her last bite. She lays her fork down next to her plate and waits for Carol’s attention to be focused back on her. That’s something else she’s learned about Carol: when Carol falls into her thoughts, it takes time for her to swim back out, and Therese has learned to throw a lifesaver out whenever she wants Carol to come back.
Carol swallows and lays her fork down as well, her plate considerably fuller that Therese’s. “Oh?” She’s not detached, per se, but she’s not invested either.
“I think you’ll like it. It’s a murder mystery. The newest one from Agatha Christie.”
Carol looks surprised and blushes a little, as though even now she’s a little embarrassed to prefer detective novels to so-called classic literature. “That’s wonderful, angel. Thank you.”
Therese shrugs, and stands to put her plate in the skink. They’ll need to do the dishes soon, and it’s Carol’s turn today, but Therese wants to speak to her before she does it. She won’t get the chance to, she knows even as she presses a kiss to Carol’s head before heading down to their room so she can change out of her work clothes. Carol’s got a knack for avoiding things that make her uncomfortable, and if she knows anything about Carol than it’ll be right before Therese falls asleep that Carol will begin to talk to her.
She isn’t wrong, which offers her a small dose of satisfaction. “What do you mean?” She asks as she turns so that she’s facing Carol in the dark.
“I don’t know,” Carol really doesn’t from the frustration in her voice, and Therese links their fingers together. “I got a call from Harge this morning, telling me that he wants to trade weekends with me.” Therese fills in the blanks that Carol leaves. Carol is always annoyed and irritated after Harge’s calls, even more so when he trades Carol’s weekends without asking her first. ‘Commanding me,’ Carol would complain, ‘that’s what he’s doing.’ But it had been a long time since Harge has been able to draw tears out of Carol.
“Did something happen at work, then?” Therese asks, still gentle.
“No. Not really. An old man did come in and start shouting about women should be at home, but he was just angry I wouldn’t buy his tattered couch.” Therese feels Carol shrug. This too, unfortunately, wasn’t uncommon in Carol’s work as a buyer. Sometimes, customers got angry at her not willing to buy at the prices they offer, and their insults range from professional to personal, especially when they notice Carol doesn’t wear a wedding ring.
“Did you feel bad about that?”
“No.” Carol pauses, and Therese can practically think her thinking it through. “Not really,” she amends. “I didn’t think about it.”
Therese thinks about it too, but she has to ask to make sure she isn’t understanding things wrong, “Is it about the mug, Carol?”
Carol chuckles a little, and tightens her hold on Therese’s fingers. “It was your favorite mug, wasn’t it?’
“No.” She preferred it, but not because it was special. It was Therese’s favorite because it wasn’t special and she could get it anywhere she liked. It was Therese’s favorite because Carol often carried that one to her, and it has become her habit to look for Carol carrying her mug with coffee in it. Really, Therese’s favorite is just Carol. “So I hope you don’t feel bad about it.”
Carol says nothing, just presses a kiss to her forehead. They don’t speak much after that, and Therese listens to Carol’s breathing soften and slow, the rhythmic sound of her breathing lulling Therese to sleep soon after.
They’re eating breakfast, it’s Saturday and Therese doesn’t have to go into work for once, and she is watching Carol finish a crossword puzzle in the news when she understands Carol’s tears yesterday. It’s really not about the mug, she thinks even as she decides she’s going to buy another one just so that Carol doesn’t feel bad. It’s about Carol being tired, tired of being treated like she isn’t a devoted and loving mother, tired of being treated like she isn’t a competent and capable worker, tired of being doubted and small inconveniences. She’s exhausted, Therese realizes with a start, as Carol sips her coffee before looking back down at the answer for a five-letter word for ‘damp.’
“It’s ‘moist’,” Therese says, and takes a sip of her own coffee.
Carol looks up, a smile crossing her face, and Therese gives up her loveseat in favor of curling up and pressing her cold feet into Carol’s shins on the couch, clutching her warm coffee and letting the sunlight stream in from the windows. She presses a light kiss on Carol’s bare shoulder, and watches Carol finish the rest of the crossword puzzle.