The voice in the morning

I woke up this morning to hearing HP’s voice. Lovely soft and Scottish. He came into my mind before I opened my eyes. I pictured him in our kitchen, the light coming through the window. In his robe eating cereal.

I kept my eyes closed. I knew he was talking to her, I knew he was dressed for work, but I imagined that he was there intimately talking to me, that the tone of his voice was for me not for her. Until, he said my name and ‘She’ll not understand.’

This pushed me awake.

‘But of course she’ll understand,’ I heard Candy say after a the clink of a mug on the counter.

‘I don’t think she will. She’ll give me a really hard time. It’s divided us, and I can’t tell her.’

‘But if it’s bothering you. You need to.’

It was silence. I recognized that silence. HP and I’s relationship, the years since we met, have been filled with more of those silences than words. He’s not the type to speak with his lips, he says things with his body, and his actions. I could not see how he was standing, but I know him well enough that I didn’t need to see. His hands would have been in his pockets, hunched, looking at the ground. He would have stepped away from Candy when she suggested that he talk about it. Or, that’s how he acts towards me when I broach the subject to talking things through.

Then Candy said, ‘I’m glad you’ve told me then. It’s good to not hold things in. And I’m certainly not going to judge you.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that,’ he said. He lingered in a moment and then added, ‘But you are Whedonite. Would expect nothing less.’

I’m too tired and upset to summarise this experience for the blog. I’m still home, I’m late for work. Should be in the office by now but I haven’t even left the house. I don’t want to leave the house. Don’t see the point.

 

 

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