“We had plans, Byron and I, for this Friday.” Ursula picks a can up, sets it on top of another. They don’t nest; their rims are bent all out of shape from long storage. “What is today, even?”
“Saturday, I think.”
She clicks her tongue. “Missed chances. And Dawn and I were going to see a film tonight, I suppose. Some romantic nonsense at the Regent.”
Sally taps her fingers on the glass, visibly uncomfortable.
“Do you know,” Ursula finds herself asking before she can think better of it, “what ‘let’s do it tomorrow’ means?”
“I’m too busy today?” Sally tries, and there’s the cruelty Ursula’s used to, just a twist of it.
“No.” The third can sits precariously, all of its stability contingent on those supporting it. “It means ‘I hope tomorrow comes.’”
No response to that, and Ursula isn’t waiting for one--she’s already turned back to the cabinets, finishing the job she started. The tower of cans is disassembled, one at a time.
“I thought you said,” she says over her shoulder, “that you weren’t staying?”
She hears the chair legs scrape and Sally mumbling something under her breath, something that sounds like to hell with you and sounds like I tried. And Ursula has to lean her forehead on the back of her hand for a minute, there against the cabinet door, because yes, she did try--
But what makes her think, with the dead outside waiting to judge their every mistake and one of their number verifiably killed in action and the common room covered in blood like a grisly expressionist painting, that trying is enough?
part 15b
“Saturday, I think.”
She clicks her tongue. “Missed chances. And Dawn and I were going to see a film tonight, I suppose. Some romantic nonsense at the Regent.”
Sally taps her fingers on the glass, visibly uncomfortable.
“Do you know,” Ursula finds herself asking before she can think better of it, “what ‘let’s do it tomorrow’ means?”
“I’m too busy today?” Sally tries, and there’s the cruelty Ursula’s used to, just a twist of it.
“No.” The third can sits precariously, all of its stability contingent on those supporting it. “It means ‘I hope tomorrow comes.’”
No response to that, and Ursula isn’t waiting for one--she’s already turned back to the cabinets, finishing the job she started. The tower of cans is disassembled, one at a time.
“I thought you said,” she says over her shoulder, “that you weren’t staying?”
She hears the chair legs scrape and Sally mumbling something under her breath, something that sounds like to hell with you and sounds like I tried. And Ursula has to lean her forehead on the back of her hand for a minute, there against the cabinet door, because yes, she did try--
But what makes her think, with the dead outside waiting to judge their every mistake and one of their number verifiably killed in action and the common room covered in blood like a grisly expressionist painting, that trying is enough?
*