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It’s not Columbina’s first time to wake up in the middle of the night finding that the space beside her on that bed is empty.
Whenever such instances happen, the first thing that Columbina does is to check the balcony. It is a rather cold midwinter out there, where it will prevent anyone from coming out at the dead of night, but neither she and her wife really minded the cold—especially when the cold is the only solace to tame the mind.
The black-haired woman gropes around in the dark, finding the nightstand. Their rings are still there; her necklace with a ring attached, and Sandrone’s own, and so is Sandrone’s cellphone. Her wife and her habit of doubling the alarm while they already set the clock—not like there’s any appointment, mostly just Columbina nearly late to work. Columbina likes darkness the most, it is when she feels that it is the most bright. Sandrone will always open the curtain to the balcony so that the moonlight can enter on any night with clear skies. Uninvited, but always welcome.
Columbina checks that the locks are in place, and no sign of noise coming from the balcony. She turns her attention to the living room, seeing the shadow cast around the room without any indication that the lamp is turned on. Sandrone will leave the lamp on if she’s gone to the bathroom, or if she ends up reading in the living room. Her excuse is always ‘I don’t want to bother your sleep’.
Her last place to check is Sandrone’s study, which is located right at the corner after the entrance. The farthest room from the bed that’s been sound-proofed, and Columbina-proofed from her trying to nag Sandrone to take breaks whenever she is in the zone … or deadline.
Columbina registers no sound by standing near the creak of the door, just a ray of light that shines on her shadow, and the back that’s turned away from the door.
The messy spill of brown hair splay upon her back as the figure hunches at the floor of the study, trembling. One look, Columbina can tell that the person is hugging herself, perhaps preventing her cries from being heard. Right where she is hunched is an open album, a stack of paper clippings from different Fontainian newspapers that have yellowed and unreadable, and old obituaries taken from many pamphlets.
Columbina knows well that Sandrone dislikes being surprised, and clearly, this is not an instance where she tries to crack a joke to lighten the mood. She unwraps the checkered shawl from her shoulders, then she knocks on the door three times.
“Sandrone, may I come in?”
Sandrone doesn’t raise her head, but a slight incline—the way her head slants to the side in a resemblance of nodding—is a green light for Columbina to take a step forward. Columbina stops, just before she is able to reach her wife, as Sandrone likely wakes up again mourning; mourning to those days that never come back, mourning to those faces that shall never be remembered, and it makes her heart torn. Aches.
Columbina likes singing. Her 9-to-5 job never gets her to sing, nor she is prompted to sing anywhere, but Columbina always sings for Sandrone, just as they are separated by an arm’s length. It’s a sign that she’s here. It’s a sign that she wants to come closer. It’s a sign of her feelings for hoping to accompany her beloved in such tumultuous times, while it is also understandable if Sandrone rejects her presence.
It’s, after all, not the first time Columbina is turned away. Sandrone only has to say that she needs time to be alone, and Columbina will let her have all the time in the world. She can wait. She will wait. She doesn’t mind if Sandrone doesn’t need her now. Or-
“... Really,” Sandrone’s sharp tone is muffled by her own arms. “Why do you always have to see me in my lowest?”
Columbina allows herself to sit on the floor, too. Her hand reaches out just so, to Sandrone’s way, but she won’t come closer—not yet. “Because I’m your wife?”
“Golly. I hate when you’re always right.”
“I don’t, though? You’ve said it once or twice before, Sandrone.”
Sandrone lets out a dry laugh as she pulls up her head. She tucks her chin atop her folded arms, her strong grip to herself loosens. A sign of tears still struck on her brilliant blue eyes, and Columbina almost wanted to kiss it better.
“Maybe three times. Maybe more.” she says with a sigh. “Sorry—are you here to ask me to go back to bed?”
“If you don’t want to, then I won’t ask.” Columbina shakes her head.
“Rare to hear you being so accommodating,” a hint of sarcasm, but also with a lighthearted smile.
“Then…” Columbina finally tugs on Sandrone’s sleeve. “Come back to bed with me?”
Sandrone makes a face, neither pleased nor angered, just her eyes go wide and her mouth goes open. She always does that whenever she has something to say—and at the last second, Sandrone keeps the words away from Columbina. Though, Columbina can tell what it is. Or, at least, take her guess. She is good at guessing. Sandrone sometimes can be like an open book.
Sandrone scoots closer, pulling the shawl from Columbina’s hand. She unfurls the fabric so they both can huddle together inside, and she snuggles to Columbina as she also relaxes to the touch.
“We won’t stay like this for long since I know you have work in the morning, so …” Sandrone says—perhaps warns—as she places her head on Columbina’s shoulder. “Will you listen to the story of my family again?”
“Of course, Sandrone.”