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Jul. 8th, 2006 01:58 amIt was around the two-week mark that she stopped checking the doors so religiously.
She still checked whenever the urge hit her, but realism won out over stubbornness and she kind of lost the heart to disappoint herself that often.
It is what it is.
Spike told Beth that more than once, and really, that's about all there is to it. It's just that there's too goddamn much time to think here.
One night, not wanting the hassle of having to push herself up off her mattress on the floor to turn off the overhead light when she went to sleep, she read by flashlight. It was just one of those old flight manuals she'd taken from the library not long after the crash, and after all this time, she still remembered certain parts almost word for word.
After reading a single chapter, her eyes wandered to the light from the flashlight, and she watched the particles in the air weave in and out of that beam of light, almost seeming to disappear and reappear, until they made her think of fireflies.
She wonders if Spike, whose shirt no longer smells anything like that achingly familiar smoke and soap but everything like her church, ever caught fireflies -- or the Mars equivalent -- in jars when he was little.
She wonders if her kid ever will.
She still checked whenever the urge hit her, but realism won out over stubbornness and she kind of lost the heart to disappoint herself that often.
It is what it is.
Spike told Beth that more than once, and really, that's about all there is to it. It's just that there's too goddamn much time to think here.
One night, not wanting the hassle of having to push herself up off her mattress on the floor to turn off the overhead light when she went to sleep, she read by flashlight. It was just one of those old flight manuals she'd taken from the library not long after the crash, and after all this time, she still remembered certain parts almost word for word.
After reading a single chapter, her eyes wandered to the light from the flashlight, and she watched the particles in the air weave in and out of that beam of light, almost seeming to disappear and reappear, until they made her think of fireflies.
She wonders if Spike, whose shirt no longer smells anything like that achingly familiar smoke and soap but everything like her church, ever caught fireflies -- or the Mars equivalent -- in jars when he was little.
She wonders if her kid ever will.
