Clarity

"Look at you," he says, clicking his tongue against his teeth, with a less than subtle eyeing of my figure. "You've filled out."

I raise my left eyebrow slightly. I can't tell if this is a compliment or an insult. But then that's very his style. Perhaps it's both.

"So have you," I reply, eyebrow still raised.

"Ouch," he laughs, brushing his hair from his eyes. He's not hurt at all though, not really. He's always liked it when I bite back.

If I were to be honest, he hasn't changed at all. He's never been slim. Not since I've known him anyway. Not that I've ever minded. As much as he's refused to believe it in the past, looks aren't the main attraction to me. And I find everyone beautiful when I love them. In fact, I think I find everyone beautiful. Or perhaps no one at all.

He steps back with a smile that reaches his eyes. He's happy I'm here. I think it's been long enough that he's happy I'm here. 

"Well, are you coming in?"

--------

"I think I've realised I just can't really be alone."

He almost chokes on his beer at this admission. He brushes his hair out of his face again, still laughing as he replies, "You think?"

I smirk in response. "Alright, Mr. Independent. No need for that."

He chuckles again and scoots a little closer on the couch. He looks directly into my eyes and I turn away instinctively, thumbing the edge of my beer can and examining it with interest.

"Beth," he says quietly but confidently.

I lift my gaze to meet his again, and this time Lars brushes my hair out of my own face. 

"I missed you." He says warmly, his fingers lingering on my cheek bones.

"I missed you too," I reply quickly, shortly followed by, "and I bloody wished I didn't!"

He laughs and pulls me in tight, kissing me firmly. And that was the first time we kissed.

--------

The sun is streaming in his kitchen as we prepare pancakes on the Sunday morning after my arrival.

"How long are you going to stay?" he asks as he clears the dining room table. I don't even remember the table from when I was here last. Just his couch. His desk chair. His bed. The kitchen counter.

"Not long," I reply as I pour some batter into the pan. "I should probably get back tomorrow."

"And what if you didn't?" comes the reply. I turn to face him. There's not a hint of hesitation in his face. Not that I can sense. No fear that I'll say no. 

"Well," I reply slowly, turning back to the pan, "I guess then I'd have to reassess my life choices."

"Should probably be doing that anyway" he retorts as he jabs a finger into my side and makes me jump and laugh, almost spilling batter all over his kitchen floor.

--------

It's a Thursday evening and we're in a small bar. I've never been to a bar with him before, have I? That's a lie. At least twice. I look around at the velvet interior. At least three times, I think again. I just seem to be having trouble distinguishing reality from fiction.

I'm wearing a fitted tartan dress and a leather jacket. He's wearing - God forbid - a white button up shirt and a blazer. We're with a couple of Lars' friends whom I've met before, and a couple I haven't. I can't help but think I'm being shown off. The same way he used to tell me he spoke about me. But now I'm really here. 

One of the more slimy characters amongst his friends - one I haven't met before, and who I'm sure has not only had his teeth done but some work on his face - raises a glass in my direction. "Glad to finally have you with us, Beth." 

Glasses around me rise up and I oblige by raising my own.

The friends resume chatting and Lars surprises me by slipping his arm around my waist. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. A flash of a scene from several years ago in a restaurant returns to me briefly. Hugging me so tight I thought he'd never let go. 

--------

Saturday rolls around and we're drinking tea and coffee on his couch. His hair is matted and he's only wearing boxers. I'm wearing a blue night robe, one I picked up in Chinatown a few years ago, and fluffy woolen socks, despite the heat. They're comforting.

"I'm leaving tomorrow." I let him know as I sip my tea.

He throws a look in my direction. This time he doesn't remove the hair from his eyes.

"Why don't we get married?" he asks. It's a joke, but at the same time I know it's not.

"Why would we get married?" I ask sharply. 

"I think I'd make you happy," he replies gently. It's not the first time he's told me this. 

"I don't think you would." I respond quietly. It's not the first time he's heard this.

--------

It's Sunday afternoon and we're on the way to the airport. He's a little grouchy but still softer than I ever remembered.

"What if I never see you again?" he asks, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"It's always a possibility," I begin,

"Unless you marry me," he cuts me off with a glint in his eye and gesture that implies touche.

I scoff at this. 

"Lars," I begin, "this is the closest I've ever been to you. I practically live down the road now."

"But you'll forget about me when you leave," he continues, all signs of jest in his voice gone, "like you always do when you find someone else."

I swallow and we continue the drive in silence.

--------

"Goodbye, Beth." He grabs me by the shoulders at first, gazing into my eyes for a moment before pulling me in close. 

"Goodbye, Lars." I murmur into the nape of his neck. 

He pulls away again for a second before kissing me passionately. Tenderly. His hand on the small of my low back.

He takes another step backward and holds my left hand in his right.

"I love you, Beth." he confesses, the closest I've ever seen him to tears.

"I know," I reply clearly.

"So why don't you stay?"

I press my lips together then let out a sigh.

"Because you'll just hurt me."

I let go of his hands and turn on my heels to leave.