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so little time and only passing through
Sep. 21st, 2020 01:45 pmAndy kept her face down in her book, though she knew exactly how many people were in the café with her. She knew where they were in the room, what they were carrying, whether they were armed. She knew the man at her left elbow, sitting at the next table over, was a veteran from somewhere. Somewhere evidently not happy, given his service animal parked under the table by his feet. She glanced up at and past him, thumb marking her place in her book as she flicked the other fingers of her free hand clear of crumbs.
The café had baklava, and it--and pizza--were her weaknesses with food. It was so delicate and sweet, and she'd never forget how heavenly it had tasted the first time Quynh had pushed it to her lips, insistent. Quynh was always insistent, and had been even in her assurances to Andy that they'd always be together. And they had.
Until they hadn't.
Whether Quynh was actually dead or not Andy didn't know: they'd met on a foreign joint-operation and taken to one another immediately, and over the long, long months between when that operation had ended and when they'd met again Quynh had been in every one of Andy's dreams. Then she'd gotten time for rest-and-rec and Andy hadn't even questioned where she'd go, or who she'd see. They hadn't left the bed for an entire day. And things had gone that way for a long time, with letters and emails passing between them to mark the inanities of their lives, teaching each other their own languages--Andy spoke several, though for work she mostly stuck to Hebrew, and Quynh had been startled to learn her native tongue was Ossetian. They would meet and part, and spend time together, growing ever closer and happy. But the time when Quynh was supposed to meet Andy in Tel Aviv, Andy had opened the door to find two somber uniformed officers instead.
Her stomach had dropped like a lead weight and she didn't remember the rest of the next two weeks. Her unit didn't know exactly what had happened, but Andy was cooler, meaner: gone were even the little passing, laughing smiles that had lit her face occasionally at their jokes and jibes. None of them knew about Quynh, but they knew something was off. But they came and went, rotated on and off the unit, and Andy stayed. She was good at what she did, and what she did was good for the unit. Until three months ago it very abruptly hadn't been, and that brought her here.
Sitting at a café, trying to read and not concentrate on the dog whining at her, or the telltale buzzing in the back of her head that, had she been paying attention to it, would have heralded a trauma spiral about to begin. She just wanted to read. Quynh had always talked about traveling: she devoured travel guides and books about far-off places, marveling that the world was so easy to traverse now. There had been no excuse in her mind to not go, see things, meet people. It was why Andy was sitting in Rome, her hands cradling a guide book with trembling fingers, eyes closed in useless defense against the chatter of Italian she didn't speak.
"Can you stop her doing that?"
The café had baklava, and it--and pizza--were her weaknesses with food. It was so delicate and sweet, and she'd never forget how heavenly it had tasted the first time Quynh had pushed it to her lips, insistent. Quynh was always insistent, and had been even in her assurances to Andy that they'd always be together. And they had.
Until they hadn't.
Whether Quynh was actually dead or not Andy didn't know: they'd met on a foreign joint-operation and taken to one another immediately, and over the long, long months between when that operation had ended and when they'd met again Quynh had been in every one of Andy's dreams. Then she'd gotten time for rest-and-rec and Andy hadn't even questioned where she'd go, or who she'd see. They hadn't left the bed for an entire day. And things had gone that way for a long time, with letters and emails passing between them to mark the inanities of their lives, teaching each other their own languages--Andy spoke several, though for work she mostly stuck to Hebrew, and Quynh had been startled to learn her native tongue was Ossetian. They would meet and part, and spend time together, growing ever closer and happy. But the time when Quynh was supposed to meet Andy in Tel Aviv, Andy had opened the door to find two somber uniformed officers instead.
Her stomach had dropped like a lead weight and she didn't remember the rest of the next two weeks. Her unit didn't know exactly what had happened, but Andy was cooler, meaner: gone were even the little passing, laughing smiles that had lit her face occasionally at their jokes and jibes. None of them knew about Quynh, but they knew something was off. But they came and went, rotated on and off the unit, and Andy stayed. She was good at what she did, and what she did was good for the unit. Until three months ago it very abruptly hadn't been, and that brought her here.
Sitting at a café, trying to read and not concentrate on the dog whining at her, or the telltale buzzing in the back of her head that, had she been paying attention to it, would have heralded a trauma spiral about to begin. She just wanted to read. Quynh had always talked about traveling: she devoured travel guides and books about far-off places, marveling that the world was so easy to traverse now. There had been no excuse in her mind to not go, see things, meet people. It was why Andy was sitting in Rome, her hands cradling a guide book with trembling fingers, eyes closed in useless defense against the chatter of Italian she didn't speak.
"Can you stop her doing that?"
