She was in line for a coffee when she spotted her, waiting at the counter. Ten, god, ten years? Eleven? She looked older than that now, familiar and very unfamiliar all at once. The only thing Moirine recognised were her elbows, sharp below her pastel cardigan. Mari was staring intently into space. Receiving her coffee she thanked the barista and took a sip, turning around. Their eyes locked; Moirine glanced away, but Mari had recognised her too, was stepping towards her.
“Moirine? Moirine Burrell?”
Moirine turned and pulled out a painful, tight smile. “Hi,” she said, preparing for awkwardness. Mari stepped towards her and, hesitating a little, held out her hand. They shook formally, two pumps.
“Been a while,” Mari said.
“Yeah,” Moirine said back to her. She didn’t know what else to say. Mari looked back at her coffee. Moirine was still three places back in the queue. This felt unreal, like they were on a TV show, the whole coffee shop an audience. “Ten years.”
“Eleven,” Mari confirmed. “Well,” she looked back down at her coffee, trying to figure out what to say. “I won’t keep you.”
“Alright,” Moirine said, feeling relieved more than anything else. Mari nodded and stepped away, leaving the coffee shop, waving over her shoulder. Neither of them vocalised a goodbye; it had been said more than enough ten years ago. Eleven, she reminded herself, and moved up in the queue as another person left it to collect their drink. Her hand still tingled with the pressure of the handshake.
She put the meeting out of mind. There were rewrites to concentrate on, rehearsals to get right, parts to workshop. By the end of the week she was exhausted, as were the others, so when the leading man suggested they all go out for pies at a nice place he knew, she agreed, only so she wouldn’t have to do any cooking once she got home.
The pies at Tweedle Dee’s were good and tasted nutritious, even if, she was sure, they were full of empty calories. And Richie was good company to sit next to, quiet Ava, playing her character’s sister beside her. She got so caught up in listening to the others talk, that when Richie elbowed her gently, she genuinely jumped. “There’s a lady over there who keeps looking over at us,” he whispered into her ear.
“Maybe she likes you,” Moirine whispered back, searching for the lady he was talking about. There were three seated tables ahead of them, one featuring two men chatting quietly, their heads close together. Another had a small family, but the mother seated with her back to them; a third a group of teenagers who were caught up in themselves. And at the counter, the manager, head down, apparently absorbed in a newspaper.
“I am extraordinarily handsome,” Richie agreed. “But I don’t think she’s looking at me.”
He held up his phone at an angle, the camera on. They stared into the screen together, able to see the rest of the dining room now, while looking as though they were sharing a text, or checking out an app. They scanned the diners again, and then it happened; the manager looked up from the paper to frown at them. Moirine gasped. It was Mari. “That’s the lady?” She asked, tapping the screen so that it focused on her face. “The one that’s been looking at us all night?”
“You know her?”
“Yes,” said Moirine, but couldn’t complete that thought. Yes, she knew her. “I’ll talk to her,” she said and stood up, walking over to the counter.
Mari had gone back to the newspaper. Moirine could remember a time when she would have ripped the paper out of her hands and thrown it to the ground. But they were both so different now. So she waited instead. Mari lowered the paper and they looked at each other. Mari cleared her throat. “Just to be safe,” she said. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”
“No!”
“Great,” Mari tapped her paper. Moirine watched her. Somehow, the memory of Mari she’d kept with her had been taller. Her hair looked grey too, in places. She couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty one. But there were lines under her eyes that suggested otherwise. “Just-- turning up to the place I always get coffee, then my business…”
“I thought this was Dee Cosimo’s place?”
“Nah,” Mari shook her head. “It was, but she was shit with financing, so I bought it off her before the bank could take it. She still runs the kitchens. I do all the rest.”
“What happened to being a doctor?” Moirine asked. Mari lowered her eyes, then shrugged.
“You still an actress?”
“Yeah,” said Moirine, glancing back towards her table.
“Cool,” Mari rubbed her jaw. "Saw you in that show last year."
"Two years ago," Moirine corrected.
"You were very good."
"I was only in it for an episode."
"Very good," Mari said again. "They'd be dumb not to bring you back."
"It's ending this season," Moirine said.
"Ah well," Mari was fumbling for the right thing to say. "I'm not a regular watcher."
"That's alright." This was awkward.
"Well," Mari said. "This has been grand." Not the word she would use. Moirine nodded and stepped away from the counter. Mari put her face in her hands. "I like my chefs," she said. "But they make shit coffee. Want to go find a better place? Talk for real?"
Moirine nodded, yes, alright, fine. Mari got her coat and called into the kitchen that she'd be back in the morning and Moirine said goodnight to her castmates and they went out walking. But they didn't find a single coffee place that was open, so they moved their stroll out towards the harbour, as though the ocean would be their witness.
Despite the summer, the night was cool and a breeze rolled in off the sea and chilled Moirine, in her light dress and cardigan. Mari noticed. “Are you cold?”
Moirine shook her head, then changed her mind and nodded, Yes.
“Okay,” Mari said and took off her thick jacket. She helped Moirine do up the zip and then button it as well. It smelled like Mari did. Mari put her arm around her and Moirine leaned her head against her shoulder and for a second, ten years, a decade, had never passed; time had pulled itself inwards and she was twenty again and they were together. It couldn’t last; she shrugged Mari’s arm off her shoulders and began to unbutton the jacket.
“We made such a mess,” she sighed. It had taken her years to sweep up the debris of her broken heart.
Hands in her pockets, Mari watched. “We’re,” she started, stopped. Started again. “We left each other because...the stuff we needed was in different directions, I guess.”
“I guess,” Moirine echoed, her voice hollow. Mari had slipped her hands into her pockets and was watching her, head cocked. That was a new pose; she wondered who she’d learned it from.
“Well,” Mari looked at her feet. She still wore jeans, but differently than before; a different cut, different colour, different style. Dress shoes now, instead of converses; a blouse instead of the band t-shirts. She even smelled slightly different, the trace of her on the jacket mingled with the smell of baked pastry. No more sneaked cigarettes on her breath. Moirine felt almost a little childish. But then she had changed too, hadn’t she? A new haircut, different make-up, a different way of holding herself that’d come from days of drama courses and nights of improv lessons. She didn’t dress so much like - how had Mari put it once? A constipated Sunday school teacher. Moirine smiled at the memory and folded her hands and looked at the ground too. Mari was still struggling for words. That was new as well; she was quiet, all of a sudden. There were silences now, when they walked, or ate, or drove. The silence of a person who’d realised, finally, that this world was not something that they could win, not the way they wanted to. “I think maybe, I mean. Our interests now - they kind of align, don’t they?”
“What are you talking about?” She asked and saw Mari flinch. Regroup.
“I want to try again,” Mari said, after a long moment. “I miss you. I’ve been…” her jaw set, but then she sighed and wiped her face with a hand. “I guess I didn’t realise how much I still miss you until you walked back into my life. There’s a hole in my heart where you used to be, and the memories I keep in there aren’t doing shit to keep it stopped up.”
They both let that hang in the air between them, looking away. There was a respectable distance between them now, a good foot or so. The words filled it up. Moirine took one of her hands. “Do you remember,” she asked, “when I woke you up?”
“You woke me up a lot,” Mari said.
“The time when the dogs were barking outside. And we could hear your brother coughing from across the house.” She could tell from the smile on Mari’s face that she knew, she remembered. “We talked about how easy it would be, when we graduated. How easy everything would be, when we were out of that little town.” Mari’s smile had faded. She’d turned, to look out at the pier, chin low so that the corner of her collar obscured a part of her face.
“It’s never that easy though,” she conceded. “Is it? Never as easy as you imagine it’ll be.”
“No,” Moirine agreed. Had either of them truly been prepared for the relationship that they’d had? Had they been old enough for it? Had they learned enough about the world, about themselves? She let go of Mari’s hand and stood next to her, watching the waves on the ocean roll gently to meet the sand, over and over, an unbreakable cycle. The jacket around her shoulders provided more than enough protection from the wind and she felt safe and sound within. Her knuckles brushed Mari’s, but neither of them spoke. It was enough, for now, to stand on the pier and watch the ocean as the tides changed and the water spread as far as either of their eyes could see.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
epilogue - (now i'm all messed up)
“Moirine? Moirine Burrell?”
Moirine turned and pulled out a painful, tight smile. “Hi,” she said, preparing for awkwardness. Mari stepped towards her and, hesitating a little, held out her hand. They shook formally, two pumps.
“Been a while,” Mari said.
“Yeah,” Moirine said back to her. She didn’t know what else to say. Mari looked back at her coffee. Moirine was still three places back in the queue. This felt unreal, like they were on a TV show, the whole coffee shop an audience. “Ten years.”
“Eleven,” Mari confirmed. “Well,” she looked back down at her coffee, trying to figure out what to say. “I won’t keep you.”
“Alright,” Moirine said, feeling relieved more than anything else. Mari nodded and stepped away, leaving the coffee shop, waving over her shoulder. Neither of them vocalised a goodbye; it had been said more than enough ten years ago. Eleven, she reminded herself, and moved up in the queue as another person left it to collect their drink. Her hand still tingled with the pressure of the handshake.
She put the meeting out of mind. There were rewrites to concentrate on, rehearsals to get right, parts to workshop. By the end of the week she was exhausted, as were the others, so when the leading man suggested they all go out for pies at a nice place he knew, she agreed, only so she wouldn’t have to do any cooking once she got home.
The pies at Tweedle Dee’s were good and tasted nutritious, even if, she was sure, they were full of empty calories. And Richie was good company to sit next to, quiet Ava, playing her character’s sister beside her. She got so caught up in listening to the others talk, that when Richie elbowed her gently, she genuinely jumped. “There’s a lady over there who keeps looking over at us,” he whispered into her ear.
“Maybe she likes you,” Moirine whispered back, searching for the lady he was talking about. There were three seated tables ahead of them, one featuring two men chatting quietly, their heads close together. Another had a small family, but the mother seated with her back to them; a third a group of teenagers who were caught up in themselves. And at the counter, the manager, head down, apparently absorbed in a newspaper.
“I am extraordinarily handsome,” Richie agreed. “But I don’t think she’s looking at me.”
He held up his phone at an angle, the camera on. They stared into the screen together, able to see the rest of the dining room now, while looking as though they were sharing a text, or checking out an app. They scanned the diners again, and then it happened; the manager looked up from the paper to frown at them. Moirine gasped. It was Mari. “That’s the lady?” She asked, tapping the screen so that it focused on her face. “The one that’s been looking at us all night?”
“You know her?”
“Yes,” said Moirine, but couldn’t complete that thought. Yes, she knew her. “I’ll talk to her,” she said and stood up, walking over to the counter.
Mari had gone back to the newspaper. Moirine could remember a time when she would have ripped the paper out of her hands and thrown it to the ground. But they were both so different now. So she waited instead. Mari lowered the paper and they looked at each other. Mari cleared her throat. “Just to be safe,” she said. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”
“No!”
“Great,” Mari tapped her paper. Moirine watched her. Somehow, the memory of Mari she’d kept with her had been taller. Her hair looked grey too, in places. She couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty one. But there were lines under her eyes that suggested otherwise. “Just-- turning up to the place I always get coffee, then my business…”
“I thought this was Dee Cosimo’s place?”
“Nah,” Mari shook her head. “It was, but she was shit with financing, so I bought it off her before the bank could take it. She still runs the kitchens. I do all the rest.”
“What happened to being a doctor?” Moirine asked. Mari lowered her eyes, then shrugged.
“You still an actress?”
“Yeah,” said Moirine, glancing back towards her table.
“Cool,” Mari rubbed her jaw. "Saw you in that show last year."
"Two years ago," Moirine corrected.
"You were very good."
"I was only in it for an episode."
"Very good," Mari said again. "They'd be dumb not to bring you back."
"It's ending this season," Moirine said.
"Ah well," Mari was fumbling for the right thing to say. "I'm not a regular watcher."
"That's alright." This was awkward.
"Well," Mari said. "This has been grand." Not the word she would use. Moirine nodded and stepped away from the counter. Mari put her face in her hands. "I like my chefs," she said. "But they make shit coffee. Want to go find a better place? Talk for real?"
Moirine nodded, yes, alright, fine. Mari got her coat and called into the kitchen that she'd be back in the morning and Moirine said goodnight to her castmates and they went out walking. But they didn't find a single coffee place that was open, so they moved their stroll out towards the harbour, as though the ocean would be their witness.
Despite the summer, the night was cool and a breeze rolled in off the sea and chilled Moirine, in her light dress and cardigan. Mari noticed. “Are you cold?”
Moirine shook her head, then changed her mind and nodded, Yes.
“Okay,” Mari said and took off her thick jacket. She helped Moirine do up the zip and then button it as well. It smelled like Mari did. Mari put her arm around her and Moirine leaned her head against her shoulder and for a second, ten years, a decade, had never passed; time had pulled itself inwards and she was twenty again and they were together. It couldn’t last; she shrugged Mari’s arm off her shoulders and began to unbutton the jacket.
“We made such a mess,” she sighed. It had taken her years to sweep up the debris of her broken heart.
Hands in her pockets, Mari watched. “We’re,” she started, stopped. Started again. “We left each other because...the stuff we needed was in different directions, I guess.”
“I guess,” Moirine echoed, her voice hollow. Mari had slipped her hands into her pockets and was watching her, head cocked. That was a new pose; she wondered who she’d learned it from.
“Well,” Mari looked at her feet. She still wore jeans, but differently than before; a different cut, different colour, different style. Dress shoes now, instead of converses; a blouse instead of the band t-shirts. She even smelled slightly different, the trace of her on the jacket mingled with the smell of baked pastry. No more sneaked cigarettes on her breath. Moirine felt almost a little childish. But then she had changed too, hadn’t she? A new haircut, different make-up, a different way of holding herself that’d come from days of drama courses and nights of improv lessons. She didn’t dress so much like - how had Mari put it once? A constipated Sunday school teacher. Moirine smiled at the memory and folded her hands and looked at the ground too. Mari was still struggling for words. That was new as well; she was quiet, all of a sudden. There were silences now, when they walked, or ate, or drove. The silence of a person who’d realised, finally, that this world was not something that they could win, not the way they wanted to. “I think maybe, I mean. Our interests now - they kind of align, don’t they?”
“What are you talking about?” She asked and saw Mari flinch. Regroup.
“I want to try again,” Mari said, after a long moment. “I miss you. I’ve been…” her jaw set, but then she sighed and wiped her face with a hand. “I guess I didn’t realise how much I still miss you until you walked back into my life. There’s a hole in my heart where you used to be, and the memories I keep in there aren’t doing shit to keep it stopped up.”
They both let that hang in the air between them, looking away. There was a respectable distance between them now, a good foot or so. The words filled it up. Moirine took one of her hands. “Do you remember,” she asked, “when I woke you up?”
“You woke me up a lot,” Mari said.
“The time when the dogs were barking outside. And we could hear your brother coughing from across the house.” She could tell from the smile on Mari’s face that she knew, she remembered. “We talked about how easy it would be, when we graduated. How easy everything would be, when we were out of that little town.” Mari’s smile had faded. She’d turned, to look out at the pier, chin low so that the corner of her collar obscured a part of her face.
“It’s never that easy though,” she conceded. “Is it? Never as easy as you imagine it’ll be.”
“No,” Moirine agreed. Had either of them truly been prepared for the relationship that they’d had? Had they been old enough for it? Had they learned enough about the world, about themselves? She let go of Mari’s hand and stood next to her, watching the waves on the ocean roll gently to meet the sand, over and over, an unbreakable cycle. The jacket around her shoulders provided more than enough protection from the wind and she felt safe and sound within. Her knuckles brushed Mari’s, but neither of them spoke. It was enough, for now, to stand on the pier and watch the ocean as the tides changed and the water spread as far as either of their eyes could see.