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Nov. 27th, 2010 05:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feel_humanIt's well after noon when she wakes up, curled on her little white bed in a wrinkled dress and feeling as if she's moving through syrup. Her hair is tangled and her eyes are red and bleary from exhaustion and the few tears that managed to squeeze their way out; she sits up and brushes ineffectually at her skirt, runs her fingers through her hair but is stopped by something cool and with the slight slippery give of thin metal, stuck in her curls. It takes a little doing to untangle it, but when she does she turns it over and over, uncertain of anything except that she's seen this before, it was pinning John's tie to his shirt when she first saw him at that party. It's proof positive that the encounter was real, and the thought is so relieving and so full of disappointment that she doesn't know whether to smile or cry: in the end she puts the pin gently on her vanity and heads to the bathroom to take a shower and clear her head.
When she comes downstairs tying her hair into braids, the windows are full of golden late afternoon light: it pools on the stairs and the old carpets in honey-colored swathes. Gran's starting dinner, and the clang of pots and pans punctuates the music from their old radio, crackling lightly with static.
She looks up, pan in hand, as Sookie walks in, and her face falls. "Why, I thought you were off tonight, Sookie. I was going to make chicken-fried steak: that's your favorite."
"Not tonight. I'm goin' in to help out, considering how short we are and all." Sookie sits at the table, tying off one plait. Her mind is still full of that strange other place; even a long hot shower didn't wash away the memory of John's hands on her skin, his arms wrapped around her so tight it was hard to breathe.
"Sookie?"
She starts; blushes and then wishes she hadn't. Gran sits at the table, the pan forgotten. Behind her the old wall clock ticks low and familiar and comforting. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," she says, smiling, and reaches out to take Gran's hand in hers, smoothing over her soft, wrinkled skin. "Gran, I...met somebody. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel all lit up and happy, and I want to cry all at the same time."
"Someone other than Mr. Compton?"
"Oh, Bill." She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yes. But I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again."
"Well." One of the many things Sookie loves about Gran is how she takes her time, picks words with care: an old-fashioned grace that's so far out of trend the world will probably never see it again (except from the vampires, who, when they have manners, seem to gravitate towards Victorianism, no matter what Bill might say). "Why do you say that, honey?"
It's impossible to explain, and no explanations mean Gran can't give her the kind of sympathetic ear she needs right now, so she just forces a smile and tugs a braid into place. "It's just a feeling. Gran, I have to go. I called Sam and he's expecting me." At the door, she hesitates, hand on the frame, looking back.
"I'll be back kinda late."
"I won't wait up," says Gran, and they both smile, knowing that she's going to anyway.
___
The evening crowd at Merlotte's is subdued, quieter even than the usual mid-week regulars, but Sookie's struck by a deep sense of unease and mistrust as she moves about, tray in hand, motions coming automatically, the efficiency of muscle memory sending her from back room to prep counter to kitchen to dining room, where she arrives without knowing how she got there. It's almost strange to see the same familiar faces, to watch Sam wiping glasses behind the bar, hear Lafayette's singing echoing gently in the hall by the kitchen. Arlene is cranky and Sookie wants to hug her for it; Hoyt Fortenberry sits by the bar looking too big to be allowed. His thoughts about Dawn are so sad and sweet that Sookie has to stop and give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek: out of the cacophony she can hear, only Hoyt seems to miss Dawn just because she was pretty and was nice to him. The flurry of thoughts and laughter and talk and the continually cranking of country songs from their light-up jukebox are just as distracting as she could hope: it's hard to concentrate on the dull pang of disappointment that's taken up residence at her solar plexus when there's so much else to try and ignore.
During a lull in the evening she leans one hip against the bar, absently loading her tray with ketchup bottles, and tries to picture John coming through the door. He'd sit there, she thinks: a booth near a window, but he'd take the opposite seat, the one with the good view of the room and the gentle glimmer of glasses at the bar. She can just about see him there, leaning with one elbow on the table, smiling that crooked smile that lights up his whole face. She loses herself in a brief daydream: she'd take a beer and a frosted glass over just like he was any other customer, go about her rounds pretending like she doesn't notice he's there, seeing how long she can keep her eyes from moving over to him. She'd win a little every time she gave in.
Tara, behind the bar, is giving her a furrowed look, the rag in her hand tossing and flipping as she cleans a glass. "Look at you," she says, sauntering over as Sookie takes a deep breath, waking from her little reverie.
"What?" She's painfully aware of the smile that's found it's way to her mouth without her notice, but tries to direct it down towards the tray.
Tara sucks at her teeth, cocks her head over her shoulder. "Lafayette!"
His bandanna-covered head appears in the hatch. "What, bitch?"
"Don't Sookie look different to you?"
"Tara," Sookie protests, laughing. "Leave me alone."
"Well, hey now, hey now, Miss Sook." That's Lafayette, leering her with such blanket laciviousness it's anything but offensive. "You do look all kind of bright and shiny. I know that look. Whatsa matter? You get a new fella?"
She leans both arms on the bar, lets her eyes sparkle at him. "You always think it's always about a man, don't you, Lafayette?"
"Oh, honey chile." He tips back, tosses his bandanna as if it were hair. She likes Lafayette and his flamboyance: at least someone around here says whatever he likes and acts however he wants. "It always is about a man."
"Preach it," says Arlene, on her way past with a pitcher of Bud. Further along the bar, Sam's been wiping the same glass for the last minute and a half. His smile looks strained.
"Ain't the vampire, is it?"
She rounds on him, the smile fading. She's on edge and moody: Lafayette's teasing is gentle enough to laugh at but defensiveness raises her hackles. Sam's just protective, but it grates on her now, for no reason she can solidly identify. "Not that it's any of your business, Sam, but no. It's not 'the vampire,' and I wish y'all would stop calling him that. Bill's just trying to get along with everybody."
"So there is someone," Tara presses, and she shakes her head, feeling pink and flustered; she wants to fight and wants to laugh it off all at the same time. "Come on, now, Sookie. We're all friends, here." No one wheedles like Tara: maybe it's because she's so often nothing but sandpaper and biting sarcasm, and Sookie's never been able to resist her long.
"I may have met someone, yes," she admits with a feeling of annoyed helplessness, finally, tossing her head in the hopes of keeping some remainder of dignity. Lafayette waves a hand at her and smiles; she flashes him a quick one in return.
Sam's eyebrows are climbing higher and higher, but he manages a grin when he says: "Well, ain't you gonna introduce him?"
She picks up her tray and directs her comment and flat look at him from over her shoulder. "Not tonight."
___
They're busy for the rest of the night and there's no more time for daydreams or for snide remarks: she loses her temper at Andy Bellefleur and has to go to the back room to take a breather, feeling as though she's about to fly into a million pieces, and takes the tie clip out of her pocket to remind herself of reality. She's so distracted that she never hears Sam coming, jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and shoves the clip into her apron, feeling oddly guilty.
"I want to apologize." Sam's got his best kicked-puppy look on his face, the one he has when he's been too harsh with the waitresses, and she gives him a quick nod and a flicker of eyebrow. "For before. If you -- you know, if you met someone you really like, that's great for you. We shouldn't tease you."
"Thank you, Sam," she says, pulling her shoulders back, leaning on the counter behind her. "But don't worry about it. Probably nothin's gonna come of it anyhow." She can feel the old plastic smile start to stretch across her face; it's tense and painful. His eyes go hurt seeing it, and he reaches out a hand to touch her chin.
"Aw, cher. Don't think like that --" He trails off as she jerks away from his touch, presses his lips together, shoves that hand back in his pocket.
"Do you mind?" She tips her chin up, takes a deep breath. "I have tables waitin' on their food."
He steps aside, silent, lets her brush by without another word, and says nothing but orders to her for the rest of the night.
That's all right by her, and when she gets home, she's glad to see that Gran's asleep in bed with a book open on her chest and her bedside lamp glowing gentle and golden: talking is the last thing she wants right now.
Still, it's a long time before she gets to sleep, and when she finally does, her dreams -- so vivid and saturated with every emotion and color imaginable -- give her no rest at all.
When she comes downstairs tying her hair into braids, the windows are full of golden late afternoon light: it pools on the stairs and the old carpets in honey-colored swathes. Gran's starting dinner, and the clang of pots and pans punctuates the music from their old radio, crackling lightly with static.
She looks up, pan in hand, as Sookie walks in, and her face falls. "Why, I thought you were off tonight, Sookie. I was going to make chicken-fried steak: that's your favorite."
"Not tonight. I'm goin' in to help out, considering how short we are and all." Sookie sits at the table, tying off one plait. Her mind is still full of that strange other place; even a long hot shower didn't wash away the memory of John's hands on her skin, his arms wrapped around her so tight it was hard to breathe.
"Sookie?"
She starts; blushes and then wishes she hadn't. Gran sits at the table, the pan forgotten. Behind her the old wall clock ticks low and familiar and comforting. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," she says, smiling, and reaches out to take Gran's hand in hers, smoothing over her soft, wrinkled skin. "Gran, I...met somebody. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel all lit up and happy, and I want to cry all at the same time."
"Someone other than Mr. Compton?"
"Oh, Bill." She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yes. But I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again."
"Well." One of the many things Sookie loves about Gran is how she takes her time, picks words with care: an old-fashioned grace that's so far out of trend the world will probably never see it again (except from the vampires, who, when they have manners, seem to gravitate towards Victorianism, no matter what Bill might say). "Why do you say that, honey?"
It's impossible to explain, and no explanations mean Gran can't give her the kind of sympathetic ear she needs right now, so she just forces a smile and tugs a braid into place. "It's just a feeling. Gran, I have to go. I called Sam and he's expecting me." At the door, she hesitates, hand on the frame, looking back.
"I'll be back kinda late."
"I won't wait up," says Gran, and they both smile, knowing that she's going to anyway.
___
The evening crowd at Merlotte's is subdued, quieter even than the usual mid-week regulars, but Sookie's struck by a deep sense of unease and mistrust as she moves about, tray in hand, motions coming automatically, the efficiency of muscle memory sending her from back room to prep counter to kitchen to dining room, where she arrives without knowing how she got there. It's almost strange to see the same familiar faces, to watch Sam wiping glasses behind the bar, hear Lafayette's singing echoing gently in the hall by the kitchen. Arlene is cranky and Sookie wants to hug her for it; Hoyt Fortenberry sits by the bar looking too big to be allowed. His thoughts about Dawn are so sad and sweet that Sookie has to stop and give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek: out of the cacophony she can hear, only Hoyt seems to miss Dawn just because she was pretty and was nice to him. The flurry of thoughts and laughter and talk and the continually cranking of country songs from their light-up jukebox are just as distracting as she could hope: it's hard to concentrate on the dull pang of disappointment that's taken up residence at her solar plexus when there's so much else to try and ignore.
During a lull in the evening she leans one hip against the bar, absently loading her tray with ketchup bottles, and tries to picture John coming through the door. He'd sit there, she thinks: a booth near a window, but he'd take the opposite seat, the one with the good view of the room and the gentle glimmer of glasses at the bar. She can just about see him there, leaning with one elbow on the table, smiling that crooked smile that lights up his whole face. She loses herself in a brief daydream: she'd take a beer and a frosted glass over just like he was any other customer, go about her rounds pretending like she doesn't notice he's there, seeing how long she can keep her eyes from moving over to him. She'd win a little every time she gave in.
Tara, behind the bar, is giving her a furrowed look, the rag in her hand tossing and flipping as she cleans a glass. "Look at you," she says, sauntering over as Sookie takes a deep breath, waking from her little reverie.
"What?" She's painfully aware of the smile that's found it's way to her mouth without her notice, but tries to direct it down towards the tray.
Tara sucks at her teeth, cocks her head over her shoulder. "Lafayette!"
His bandanna-covered head appears in the hatch. "What, bitch?"
"Don't Sookie look different to you?"
"Tara," Sookie protests, laughing. "Leave me alone."
"Well, hey now, hey now, Miss Sook." That's Lafayette, leering her with such blanket laciviousness it's anything but offensive. "You do look all kind of bright and shiny. I know that look. Whatsa matter? You get a new fella?"
She leans both arms on the bar, lets her eyes sparkle at him. "You always think it's always about a man, don't you, Lafayette?"
"Oh, honey chile." He tips back, tosses his bandanna as if it were hair. She likes Lafayette and his flamboyance: at least someone around here says whatever he likes and acts however he wants. "It always is about a man."
"Preach it," says Arlene, on her way past with a pitcher of Bud. Further along the bar, Sam's been wiping the same glass for the last minute and a half. His smile looks strained.
"Ain't the vampire, is it?"
She rounds on him, the smile fading. She's on edge and moody: Lafayette's teasing is gentle enough to laugh at but defensiveness raises her hackles. Sam's just protective, but it grates on her now, for no reason she can solidly identify. "Not that it's any of your business, Sam, but no. It's not 'the vampire,' and I wish y'all would stop calling him that. Bill's just trying to get along with everybody."
"So there is someone," Tara presses, and she shakes her head, feeling pink and flustered; she wants to fight and wants to laugh it off all at the same time. "Come on, now, Sookie. We're all friends, here." No one wheedles like Tara: maybe it's because she's so often nothing but sandpaper and biting sarcasm, and Sookie's never been able to resist her long.
"I may have met someone, yes," she admits with a feeling of annoyed helplessness, finally, tossing her head in the hopes of keeping some remainder of dignity. Lafayette waves a hand at her and smiles; she flashes him a quick one in return.
Sam's eyebrows are climbing higher and higher, but he manages a grin when he says: "Well, ain't you gonna introduce him?"
She picks up her tray and directs her comment and flat look at him from over her shoulder. "Not tonight."
___
They're busy for the rest of the night and there's no more time for daydreams or for snide remarks: she loses her temper at Andy Bellefleur and has to go to the back room to take a breather, feeling as though she's about to fly into a million pieces, and takes the tie clip out of her pocket to remind herself of reality. She's so distracted that she never hears Sam coming, jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and shoves the clip into her apron, feeling oddly guilty.
"I want to apologize." Sam's got his best kicked-puppy look on his face, the one he has when he's been too harsh with the waitresses, and she gives him a quick nod and a flicker of eyebrow. "For before. If you -- you know, if you met someone you really like, that's great for you. We shouldn't tease you."
"Thank you, Sam," she says, pulling her shoulders back, leaning on the counter behind her. "But don't worry about it. Probably nothin's gonna come of it anyhow." She can feel the old plastic smile start to stretch across her face; it's tense and painful. His eyes go hurt seeing it, and he reaches out a hand to touch her chin.
"Aw, cher. Don't think like that --" He trails off as she jerks away from his touch, presses his lips together, shoves that hand back in his pocket.
"Do you mind?" She tips her chin up, takes a deep breath. "I have tables waitin' on their food."
He steps aside, silent, lets her brush by without another word, and says nothing but orders to her for the rest of the night.
That's all right by her, and when she gets home, she's glad to see that Gran's asleep in bed with a book open on her chest and her bedside lamp glowing gentle and golden: talking is the last thing she wants right now.
Still, it's a long time before she gets to sleep, and when she finally does, her dreams -- so vivid and saturated with every emotion and color imaginable -- give her no rest at all.
