He wasn’t a meathead, but he enjoyed his time at the gym. Thirty minutes cardio, thirty of weights, slowly inching toward the manly figure he wanted to see in the mirror. He peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes, shirt clinging stubbornly to his back, and stepped into the shower. He breathed in sharply as the cold water hit, the shock quickly turning to relief as his body cooled.
Feeling clean and refreshed, he set about shaving his face. Warm lather, sharp blade, carefully pulling the skin taut. More cold water to rinse. Aftershave moisturizer, deodorant, the day’s outfit: a snug, clean shirt paired with supple leather boots and the raw denim jeans he’d been breaking in for over a year. Roughly slicing a bagel (one side was too thin, as always), he noticed the broken kitchen drawer, reminding himself to pick up new runners on the way home from work.
Dynamics at the office were a little tricky after what had happened the day before. Some of the other employees avoided his gaze as he walked by. His team members, however, were exuberant. One of the developers intercepted him en route to his desk, clapping him firmly on the shoulder as he spoke.
“You were the only project lead with the balls to stand up for what we’re doing here. Thanks for saving my job. You still up for basketball tomorrow night?”
She tugged on the dress, adjusting it for what must have been the dozenth time. After wearing armor for so long it felt awkward, paradoxically restrictive with its flowing fabrics and tight cinches. She applied a little more rice powder in an attempt to mitigate the contrast between her pale chest and sun-bronzed face.
It had been almost a year since she had last been here. A year of filth, long marches, and battles against unimaginable terrors. She had trained in swordsmanship from a young age, much to the chagrin of the community, yet nothing could have prepared her to wade through entrails piled over top of her boots, or to watch the life slip out of the eyes of a friend.
Respect from her companions was hard-won, and not without resentment provoked among some of the duller lot. A particularly belligerent young fellow once called her a pussy; she challenged him to combat and left him humiliated and scarred.
Even as she lost family, friends, and loves, she had found…her. Her with whom she could put away the cold metal and laugh like a child, her who smelled of lilies, her who always knew how to coax stubborn hair into beauty, her whose voice could make the gods cry. Her who now refused to speak because of what she was about to do.
It was a marriage of politics, one that would bring the stability the nation so desperately needed in order to begin the process of rebuilding what had been destroyed. She started, thoughts interrupted by the agitated voice of a bridesmaid, breathless and excited.
“It’s time! Everybody’s waiting for us!”
As the game ended and he prepared to shut down the computer, she faded into the hyperactive electrons that had sustained her. And yet, she was never truly gone, for they were parts of each other. They were two expressions of the same being, existing in isolated worlds, needing and hiding, influenced and influencing in turn. It wasn’t easy, but they helped themselves, doing what was necessary for them to live, long to simply be themself. Someday, perhaps.
Not today.