(Originally I posted this in my own journal, but thought it would be better here.)
Sometimes Anthy will be doing the dishes, or reading, and will look up with a wistful expression and eyes not seeing anything in front of her. Utena knows by now not to talk to her or try to get her attention until the moment passes. There's no particular pattern that Utena can see. A phrase, maybe. The way hot water hits Anthy's wrist. Utena's never going to know.
At sixteen, at eighteen, you think you have to know everything. You insist on your lover making a full accounting, probing as if you've already been betrayed. You get out your shovel and insist on digging rights to your lover's memories. At thirty, you know better.
Utena knows better most of the time. Sometimes she wonders. They seem to have fallen into these roles -- stereotypes? -- so easily. Never once has Anthy said, "Why don't you try being the housewife and I'll go to work, then?" How placid can any one person actually be? They went out for Indian food one night and afterwards Anthy was... experimental. Thinking about it, Utena blushes, and wonders.
When she's feeling most insecure she pokes around Facebook. Wakaba has posted more pictures of her kids, but no one new has joined the Ohtori High School Alumni group.
Utena reminds herself: everyone has their moments of withdrawing, of wistfulness. Anthy, sitting on the couch with the book on her lap, shakes her head slightly and brushes her hair back. Her eyes refocus on Utena, and she smiles.
imitation is the sincerest form of flattery
Sometimes Anthy will be doing the dishes, or reading, and will look up with a wistful expression and eyes not seeing anything in front of her. Utena knows by now not to talk to her or try to get her attention until the moment passes. There's no particular pattern that Utena can see. A phrase, maybe. The way hot water hits Anthy's wrist. Utena's never going to know.
At sixteen, at eighteen, you think you have to know everything. You insist on your lover making a full accounting, probing as if you've already been betrayed. You get out your shovel and insist on digging rights to your lover's memories. At thirty, you know better.
Utena knows better most of the time. Sometimes she wonders. They seem to have fallen into these roles -- stereotypes? -- so easily. Never once has Anthy said, "Why don't you try being the housewife and I'll go to work, then?" How placid can any one person actually be? They went out for Indian food one night and afterwards Anthy was... experimental. Thinking about it, Utena blushes, and wonders.
When she's feeling most insecure she pokes around Facebook. Wakaba has posted more pictures of her kids, but no one new has joined the Ohtori High School Alumni group.
Utena reminds herself: everyone has their moments of withdrawing, of wistfulness. Anthy, sitting on the couch with the book on her lap, shakes her head slightly and brushes her hair back. Her eyes refocus on Utena, and she smiles.