Part 11
Clark stared down at the woman whose entire body he was supporting with the palm of his hand, unable to keep a smile from quirking at the corners of his mouth. His heart slowed down to a steady thump; a far cry from the staccato beat it had been a moment beforehand.
Zipping through the skies of Metropolis, he had almost managed to convince himself that going to see Lois straight after the protest fiasco was a bad idea; that talking to her would only spook her and make her even angrier with him. He had decided that it was a good idea just to go straight home and perhaps try to talk to her tomorrow – as Clark. Yes. It had been a logical proposal – good analysis, and a very reasonable way of approaching the situation.
Unfortunately, his body had had other ideas.
No matter how much he told himself to switch directions, his flight course remained unchanged, his body swift and straight, pointing unswervingly in the direction of Lois’s apartment. He had tried to go another way for maybe five minutes before giving up and accepting the inevitable. He could lie to his head: not to his heart. There was no way that he could go another two minutes without talking to her; threshing the animosity between them out into the open, and hopefully, vanquishing it. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her attitude to his alter ego - and Clark could be dealt with in due course.
He had arrived at her apartment; common courtesy, which demanded that he knock at the window first, had to be forgone as he saw her toppling off of the countertop, flinging her arms out in an attempt to save herself. Thanking the gods that she kept her window open round the clock, he had zipped into the flat and grabbed hold of her shoulders in the nick of time. The standard question, “Lois, are you all right?” had been automatic, and said deadpan; that changed, however, as he looked around. She had obviously been trying to boil milk in the microwave; the frothy mixture was bubbling merrily, everywhere but in the mug, it seemed. A cocoa tin was teetering uncertainly on the edge of the shelf above; this was obviously the thing she had been looking for. He suppressed a bubble of laughter. Only Lois could turn an endeavour as simple as making cocoa to a scene of chaos.
Her eyes cracked open uncertainly, and he stared down at her softly, still cradling her head in his hands. It seemed like an age before they landed on him; upside down, she gave a squawk of surprise, and her arms flailed wildly, almost knocking him on the head as he struggled to hold her up.
“Hey! Stop... stop it, I said! Hold on a minute...” he grunted, trying to avoid her arms, which were now going in a distinctly propeller-like movement. Grasping her firmly under her armpits, he steadied her, then lifted her so that she was at a normal angle again. Setting her feet firmly on the floor, he let go of her, grinning.
”Better now?” he teased, his expression light. She shot him a dagger look before almost running to the microwave, jabbing her finger at the ‘power’ button impatiently. The door burst open, and she watched in despair as a long stream of boiling liquid flowed to the floor, gathering around her feet in a scorching puddle. Yelping, she leapt out of the way, grabbing the floor mop in one fluid movement and jabbing it at the sticky white mess now coating her kitchen floor.
It seemed to be making absolutely no difference whatsoever. The milk still dripped steadily from her microwave, the mess on the floor becoming less of a puddle and more of a lake, and she swung the mop up to her face, obviously wondering what the heck was wrong with it. A pungent odour wafted up to Clark’s nose, and he winced, wondering how sour the milk had been *before* she had boiled it.
From the expression on her face, the stuff was as lumpy as it smelt. Looking disgusted, she dropped the mop abruptly, looking at him despairingly.
“Have you any idea how to clean up lumpy, congealed milk?” she asked wearily, pushing her hair back from her face in exhaustion.
Clark grinned. Luckily, Martha’s training had been thorough; she had even managed to cover this fluke occurrence.
“Do you have washing liquid?” he asked softly, trying to conceal his smile. His request was quickly granted, and he set about filling a basin with hot, soapy water.
Holding his hand out for the mop, he received a wrinkle of the nose for his pains. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up from where she had dropped it - straight into the lake of sour milk. Crinkling his nose in disgust, he squeezed one of the spongy fibres hanging off of the end.
“No wonder it didn’t work for you the first time, Lois! It’s bone-dry!” he exclaimed. How could such a brilliant reporter be so impractical?
Plunging the mop into the basin, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Lois sat at her counter, sipping a glass of water and watched the most powerful man on earth busying around her kitchen as if it were the most natural thing anybody could ever be doing.
He never ceased to amaze her – far from the stiff, stern, formal expression that usually emanated from his aura, she could now easily imagine him as a normal guy. All that was missing from the picture he was creating was a flowered apron and a hairnet. The most important, most influential, most powerful, not to mention most attractive man in Metropolis was busying around her kitchen like a mother hen, tidying up after her.
She shook her head, as amazed as ever at the turn her life had taken. Three months ago, she would have been falling over herself trying to explain by now. She would have been blushing furiously, tongue-tied, embarrassed and clumsy. Now she was cool, calm, and collected, sitting there watching him, unabashed, as he mopped. Her hero had fallen.
She almost groaned at the cruel irony of that. She had idolised this man, worshipped the air he flew on, trotted after him like a lovesick puppy, desperate for him to throw a few tidbits her way.
And he had obliged. She felt justified in saying that he had obliged. The constant visits – the encouraging smiles – the welcoming gestures – the numerous pats-on-the-back – the vaguely romantic gesticulations – he had given them all to her, and given them willingly. How was she supposed to feel about a man who dropped into her apartment in the late hours, gave her pep talks when her courage and faith in herself was lacking, came into her arms at her invitation and danced with her on the air, took her flying if she asked nicely...? Who *wouldn’t* love the perfect hero, the kind, caring, compassionate champion?
Not any more. He couldn’t be her hero any more. He had shown her his true colours – and they certainly weren’t red, blue and yellow.
Black. That was what he was. Scornful – sarcastic – patronising – moody – spiteful – sceptical – black. Just like every other man in her life – every other man she had ever loved. He was as black as the night, and she couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t let herself forget it.
He looked so innocent, so sweet, bustling around her kitchen like that – but he was still coated with the sticky tar of his betrayal, his derision. Still covered in the typical shade of his gender. Still tainted with the imperfections within him. Black. He was still black.
And only she knew it. She, out of all the people in Metropolis, was the only one who knew that Superman wasn’t the Man of Steel. He was the Man of Plastic. The Man of Paper. The Man of Glass. The Man of Clay. The burnished hero with feet of clay.
She knew now. Knew it was hopeless, even for a second, to imagine that she could ever fall in love safely, unconcernedly, without a care in the world. She had tried her hardest with the man in front of her, but it still hadn’t worked. The man she had thought to be free of all blemishes and imperfections.
The only man in the world she saw as safe.
Safe.
She grimaced with derision at her naivety in ever having had the thought that he could be such a thing. He was a man, wasn't he? Men weren't safe. She had been fooled into thinking they were - as a little girl, and later, as an adult, they had tricked her, but she was onto them now. No more would she be the blind puppy that had so doggedly trotted after him, waiting for him to come to her. Waiting for the big, compassionate, safe hero.
He wasn’t safe any more, she reflected as she sipped her glass of water.
Love wasn’t safe. Love hadn’t worked for her. Love had lifted her up high into the sky, till she was walking through the clouds every time he looked at her, floating on air at the sound of her voice. Love had borne her up, and then had promptly dropped her. From the air. Without a parachute. Without wings. Without the ability to fly.
That could never happen to Superman.
One burst of speed later, he’d be up in the clouds again, as carefree and innocent as when he had first started out, while she plummeted down to the earth below. Love had no danger for him, the all-powerful superhero.
She cast an embittered glance at him. Love came easily to men with golden exteriors and blackened hearts. He had never had to make a sacrifice in his life. Feats, which were impossible to everybody else on earth, came as a second nature to him. He had never been disillusioned by what he thought was real. His heart had never been broken.
//If you were an ordinary man, leading an ordinary life, I would love you just the same. //
She snorted bitterly. What a fool she had been – a naïve, trusting fool.
That night had taught her a harsh, unforgettable lesson. Never to give a man all of your heart. Never to wear your emotions on your sleeve. Never to tell a man that you loved him. Never to grow too comfortable with who you were; who you had become. Or else a one-way ticked to Heartbreak Hotel was inevitable.
She had become a regular there.
She *knew* all of this. She *knew* that the smart thing to do would be to walk away. She knew the reasons, grounded in clear, scientific manner. She knew the dangers; she knew the risks; she knew the pain that would undoubtedly be inflicted. It was as clear as crystal, as simple as pie. Superman was off-limits. A No-Go Area. Do Not Touch. Highly Dangerous. Before she had discovered the iron in his soul, he had been safe. Not any more.
Her head knew all of this. Her heart refused to listen.
She still loved him.
The realisation came to her like a thief in the night, tickling the edges of her un-co-operative brain. She was still in love with him. As badly as he had hurt her, even though the scar of his rejection still stung and burned, even as she tried to tell herself otherwise, at the back of her mind, she knew it to be true. She would love him until the day she died.
Setting her glass upon the counter, the liquid once contained inside now swishing formidably around in her stomach, she rubbed her temples in a circular motion. Tired. She was so tired.
Letting go would have been a blessed mercy. To collapse, her feral sobs tearing at her throat, scratching her stomach, desperate to get out of her. Letting the anguish, the pain, the hatred inside of her flow out with the cataract surging down her cheeks. Hatred. Hatred of herself. For her indecision. For her lonely heart. For her cocoa making. For her analysis. For her awful, awful love.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t let that part of her go, let it out. A mask. Her mask. She had hid her whole life behind a mask, and taking it off now was a concept too alien to imagine. It would expose her newborn self to a dirty, scruffy, loud world. It couldn’t happen.
She loved him too much to let it happen.
//What about Clark?//
What *about* Clark? Clark was a colleague. Nothing more. He obviously didn’t want anything more. Not loyalty. Not friendship. And certainly not love.
After all, if his feelings had hinted at deeper things, why had he pushed her away? Why had he run out on her in the middle of their kiss? Why had he let their partnership go so easily? Why hadn’t he protested more ardently?
All it would have taken was one impassioned sentence, one pleading gesture, for her to back down completely. Why hadn’t he done either? She had thought that she meant more to him than that...
A small voice inside her protested mildly that she was being unfair, but she squashed it ruthlessly. She didn’t feel like being fair. She hurt too much. She could only concentrate on being in love with one person at a time.
She glanced back at Superman, watching as he plunged the mop back into the basin in one fluid movement. She watched in quiet amusement as he stood back, his hands on his hips, to survey his work. It had sure taken him a long time to clean up - but then again, he hadn't used his powers, for some reason.
He turned to her and smiled politely. Her heart failed. She was losing him. The loss of reticence from his features that had touched her so much was fast fading, and he was preparing to pretend again. She knew it. She could feel it.
“Don’t go,” she blurted out without thinking.
His expression was of quiet bafflement. “I’m not going anywhere, Lois.”
Unconvinced, she searched his face. He had turned into the proverbial golden boy again – hiding himself, his true self, from her.
“I can feel you going.” Her voice was very quiet. “Moving away from me. Distancing yourself. Don’t do it. Please.”
He cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
She was growing angry. He had no right – no right at all to make her feel like this.
“You’re hiding again, aren’t you?” she said accusingly.
”Hiding?”
“Hiding behind... behind *that*.” She waved a dismissive hand at the shield on his chest. “Hiding behind that... thing, and the image it creates. Hiding yourself. You’re doing it again. Why can’t you let it go?”
He looked staggered, and her voice rose even higher, screeching and angry. She winced at the harsh sound of it, like fingernails on a blackboard; it was shrill inside her head.
“You think it works. You think I’m fooled, like everybody else. You think I don’t see it – you think I don’t feel it when you go all noble and Supermanish. But I do. I’m the only one who does. The only one in the whole city who can see behind the uniform.”
He frowned. “There is nothing behind the uniform, Lois. This –“ he gestured at his front. “- this is who I am. All of me. There’s nothing else.” She glanced at him sharply, just in time to catch a transitory glimpse of panic flit over his face, until the mask settled back into its concrete setting and he became impassive once more.
“Liar.” Her tone was quiet, reproachful. “You’re a liar, Superman. Truth and justice – ha! What a joke.”
He cast his gaze down to the floor, and Lois was amazed to see a faint tremble arrest his lip. A brief, guilty satisfaction overwhelmed her for a moment as she became aware that she was hurting him.
"I... I was hoping I could tell you myself," he muttered, still shame-faced. "I didn't want you to have to figure it out on your own."
"Figure out your dishonesty, you mean? I've known about that for months now."
His head shot up as he stared at her, his eyes betraying his fear.
"You - you have?"
"Yes." Her tone was quiet now, weary. "Ever since you let Lex fall, I knew. When you didn't save him, I knew you were just like Clark. Just like any other ordinary man. Every other ordinary man. Every other man who ever hurt me."
Her eyes downcast as they were, they neglected to notice the fleeting rush of relief that settled over his face, and when they finally rose and concentrated on him again, it was gone and he was as stonily Superman as he had ever been.
He stepped around the counter, sitting next to her and putting his hand over her two, folded tightly in her lap.
”Is that why you pulled that stunt tonight? Because you think I’m a liar? Because you think I’m not being truthful about my reason for not saving Lex?”
Stunt?
"What stunt?" she asked, and then, before he could answer, her eyes sharpening, "Just what *was* your reason for not saving Lex?
He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes bone-weary. “I haven’t given a reason why I didn’t save Lex, Lois. But believe me, I wanted to.”
“Wanted to isn’t enough,” she said blandly, staring at her hands, clasped on her lap. “A man is dead, because you weren’t fast enough.”
She looked up at him, her desperation clear on her face.
“I just want to know *why*,” she said, almost pleading. “If I can understand why you didn’t get there on time, if you can explain why you suddenly decided not to show up, then I can say goodbye to Lex. Finally. After three months, I can let him, and all my memories of him, go. I just need to know why.”
It was true. The ghost of Lex Luthor, all the remnants of their time together, all of her memories and mementos still hung like a hangman’s noose around her neck, weighty and forbidding. The emancipation that had accompanied the quick and convenient release of her engagement ring had been short-lived – the sense of presentiment quickly re-lodged itself in the pit of her stomach as Clark reminded her just how vacillating men were; just how pusillanimous; just how deceitful. She had been foolish to believe otherwise. The ring had been nothing but a symbol of her link to Lex – when that was gone, she had nothing left to remind him of her except her memories – her thoughts – more to the point, her dreams.
And they were worse than any engagement ring could ever be.
With a start, Lois realised that Superman was clearing his throat.
"I guess I do owe you that much." His voice was very low, his eyes cast downward.
Lois held her breath. Was this man actually going to tell her what she had been agonising about for the past three months? Was he going to divulge the secret on why he had been too late, hadn't even showed up? Was he actually going to do that?
He looked awfully uncomfortable. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and Lois started in surprise. Superman didn't *sweat*...
"To tell you the truth, Lois, I don't know what to tell you," he admitted softly, looking down on his hands lying motionless on his lap. "I don't know how to go about this; I don't want to make you angry, or..."
"The truth." Her eyes were pleading, her tone final. "All I want from you here is the truth. Why you didn't save him. Why you didn't turn up at all. Why you avoided answering the question for so long. Why you haven't given any explanation at all for your behaviour. Just the truth. Nothing else."
He nodded; swallowed visibly and looked up, finally. A strand of his dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he pushed it back impatiently. He looked so uncomfortable that Lois very nearly took pity on him.
Nearly.
"Do you remember Jason Trask?"
Lois nodded. The psychopathic maniac who had very nearly claimed both her and Clark's lives. Who could forget a man who had harboured such a great hatred for all things out of the ordinary?
"You must recollect the mission he was on. The thing that led him to Smallville in the first place. The reason for the phoney environmental clean-up." His voice was almost desperate, begging her to answer and put him out of his misery.
Lois nodded again. The rumour that had gone around; the rumour that had stemmed with the strange and mysterious rock Wayne Irig had found on his farm...
She gasped aloud as realisation struck her with the force of a thunderbolt. "Kryptonite? You mean... it exists?"
He nodded grimly. "It exists. And it’s the sole reason why I couldn't save Lu... Lex that day."
She searched his eyes, not understanding.
"You mean - somebody got a hold of it?"
"Not just anybody, Lois." He looked at her for a split second before continuing. "Luthor."
Her hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes starting to brim. "Lex? Lex did... Lex held... Lex did that?"
"Yes, Lois." His expression was gentle. He was trying not to hurt her. She knew it, and she appreciated it, but it didn't lessen the ache any.
"How?" Her voice trembled, and she hated herself for being so weak. She shouldn't let herself be affected by this…
His face darkened, and his voice grew bitter as he remembered. "He put word out that he wanted to talk to me. That assistant of his - Mrs. Cox, I think her name was - showed me down to the cellar, where he was 'sampling' some wine in these big, old-fashioned, wooden barrels. He made it clear that he expected me to be at your wedding - when I refused, he twisted the spout of one of them, and - I don't know, some sort of mechanism... anyway, it made a cage come down over me, and before I knew it, I was trapped."
Her head was full, swirling with the images those words had created. He must have gone through hell, all alone, down there in the depths of Lex's stinking lair...
"It must have been... it must have felt... terrible," she muttered, suddenly ashamed of herself, demanding answers to questions that were better left alone, re-opening old scars, dragging up old memories that could only cause pain.
His eyes were dark, full of the remembrance of an iniquitous torture, black pools of despair, and Lois suddenly realised that buried in a place deep inside him, the agonising, excruciating hell that he had been through still lived on -- a festering wound that wept silently.
"Yes." His voice was very quiet, and Lois bit her lip. Desperate to stop him hurting, she said in what she imagined was a reassuring tone; "Well, at least you got out. And he didn't do anything else to you, did he? I mean, you'd imagine that the Kryptonite would be enough, even for him..."
"Oh, the Kryptonite wasn't the worst part, Lois." His smile was bitter. "The worst part was the taunting. Circling the cage within arm's length of me, talking about how wonderful it would be when I died, about how he was going to break you, break your independence, your spirit, as soon as you were married... that was the worst -"
"*What*?"
He blinked, startled out of his rant by her angry exclamation. She was on her feet, staring at him as if he had just grown another head.
"He was going to *break* me? Bend me to his will? Like some kind of - *colt*?"
Superman laughed bitterly. "That's what he claimed, Lois. Knowing Luthor, I don't find it too hard to believe. He would have succeeded, you know."
She stared at him, her hand balled into fists. What did he *mean*, he would have succeeded? Surely he knew that Lois Lane wouldn't let any man take away her spirit, her fire, the essence that made her a great reporter...
Was that true? Had the woman who had kept Lex around purely because he was good for her self-esteem been the real, true Lois? Was the woman who had turned her best friend's hopes to ashes really her? The woman who had thrown herself blatantly at a superhero? Were any of these people really her? Did she *want* any of those people to be her?
Her reporter's instinct had been completely and utterly muzzled when she had been with Lex. Was the woman who had turned a blind eye to plain facts, refused point blank to go beyond her own petty sphere of thought and concept, denied what was glaring at her, as plain as the nose on her face, the true Lois Lane? Was that how she wanted to be remembered, as the naïve, blind reporter who had allowed a master criminal to pull a mask over her eyes?
Yes, Lex Luthor would have broken her. He had been well on his way, after all - taking her away from everything near and dear to her, inexplicably getting through her defence barriers with his charming words and honeyed smiles, bringing her to galas and celebrations like some kind of exotic jewel - one that hung on his arm, glittering silently, purely for show.
He had succeeded, in the end. She had become a mere shadow of what she had been before - a memory of Mad Dog. That, though it may have seemed like a blessing to some, was unacceptable. She had allowed herself to dream. That couldn't happen anymore.
Noticing that Superman was still waiting for an appropriate response, she cleared her throat softly and muttered, "I guess." The realisation was like a blast of icy water - stunning her senseless, paralysed for a nanosecond.
"I had no idea," she said softly. "I could never have guessed the reason, that day - I mean, I speculated, but I didn't even come close... what he did to you... I thought it was just because you hated him, and now--"
“No!” He was on his feet, apparently agitated, and Lois fought the bubble of alarm that had swelled inside her at the sudden movement. Watching his tensed, controlled movements as he paced around her kitchen, she was suddenly reminded of the fact that this was the strongest man on earth.
“I can’t believe you would think that way, Lois. After everything you’ve said...”
“Think what way?” She was genuinely confused. The man wasn’t making any sense! He was babbling worse than... than... than she did!
“That you'd think that my personal feelings for people are a prime factor in my job. Lois, I’ve never –“
“But I don’t! I never said that!” What was he *talking* about?
He stopped dead in the middle of her apartment.
“You just did,” he said, staring at her.
“No. I asked why you didn’t save Lex. I didn’t imply anything of what you’re talking about. In fact, I don’t know why you brought the subject up at all,” Lois retorted, glaring angrily at him. This was exactly what she didn’t need. It was half past one, and she was having a deep, meaningful conversation with a clearly confounded superhero.
"So you *don’t* think that I'm biased, or prejudiced against people I h - don't like? You don’t think I let my judgement be coloured by things said and done in my private life? You believe that I would never stand by and watch somebody die when I knew I'd have the power to stop it? You know all that?"
"Of *course* I do!"
"Then what the heck were you talking about earlier?"
Her eyes tore up, but she blinked the tears away heatedly. She was now angrier than she had ever been in her life before.
"Superman, I apologise if what I said earlier *frustrated* you in any way. What was I thinking, daring to call the Man of Steel, the Champion of Justice, everybody's favourite guy a liar? That sour milk must have turned my head, because we all *know* that Superman lives 'above us' is absolved from all blame, and isn't constricted to the everyday worries and fears of the average poor schmuck. What was I *thinking*?" Her voice was almost unbearably sarcastic, her eyes frozen chips of ice. Winter had overtaken her heart, and nothing would appease her now.
If she was ice, he was stone. His gaze was impassive, his expression revealing nothing. She grew even angrier, the emotion pulsing and swelling inside of her until it overwhelmed her, riding on a boiling red wave of rage.
"Of course, the bulk of Metropolis doesn't know what *I* know, do they?" she continued recklessly, sweeping a hand around her. "In this apartment, you scorned me, derided me, humiliated me, and flew away afterwards, leaving me to cry without a care in the world. Or have you forgotten?"
The mask was crumbling now -- she could see the lines of care, of worry, straining at the corners of his eyes.
"No, Lois, I haven't forgotten." It was said quietly, blandly.
"Then don't you *dare*," she spat out, "Don't you *dare* stand there and ask me what I was thinking when I called you a liar. Don’t you *dare* try and tell me that I was wrong, that I misjudged you, that I'm being too hasty. Don’t even begin to try and explain what you did. Don't try and run back the way you came, brush what you did to me under the mat and pretend it never happened. Don't even *start* to think that I'll just let it go like that, that you can go back to being the adulated idol in my eyes."
The silence between them swelled and pulsed, until it was a roaring monster, filling the apartment with its noise and screaming in her ear; almost loud enough to banish the voices prickling in her brain.
//Weak. //
//Blind. //
//Useless. //
//Foolish. //
//Just like Daddy always said...//
Blinking back the tears that stung suddenly at her eyes, she stared furiously down at her clasped hands, willing him to get the hint. Rise from the stool he was sitting on, note the time, cheerily wave goodbye and fly out the window. Leaving her alone with her thoughts, and her bursting heart, and her self-disgust.
Leaving her alone. Always alone.
If he were uncomfortable, he didn't show it. He had obviously noticed the silence that was roaring in her ears, and some sense of charity, of boy-scout-ness, led him to place a gentle finger under her chin and tip it up. His eyes were strangely tender as they searched hers, and Lois suddenly thought of him as a searchlight, beaming into her brain, exposing all of her private thoughts and dreams into the luminosity, leaving no stone unturned.
He dropped his hand from under her chin; his gaze was suddenly fixed on the floor again; and his tone was regretful as he addressed her.
"I never... I didn't... I'm so..."
"Don't." She could hear how harsh her tone was herself, and half-recoiled, but she couldn't let herself be kind now. "Don’t say sorry. Don't even think about saying sorry."
"Can you ever-"
"Stop. Don't ask me if I can forgive you, because I'm not sure I can give you the answer you want right now." She hated herself for that tremble in her voice. She hated herself so much.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to calm her flurried emotions.
"I'd like you to leave now."
The words flowed from her lips, bringing with them a new sense of finality. She wanted him to leave -- etiquette would demand that he respected her wishes. He would go, and leave her in peace.
As she had anticipated, he was nodding.
"That's - the least I can do, Lois. I'm so... I'll go and leave you in peace now."
She nodded wearily and padded her way back into the kitchen, turning her back on him as he prepared to leave.
"You *do* know that I never meant - that I didn't want -"
"Just go." The anger that had given her strength earlier had been carried away on its own momentum - swelling and bursting out of her. She almost expected to see a stream of it on the floor.
A gust of wind chilled her back, and she realised too late that she didn't want him to go. Had never wanted him to go. She wanted him to stay. With her. Always. That was why she hated him so much. Hated herself so much. So goddamn much.
The room wasn't big enough for her and her bursting heart. The apartment wasn't big enough. She wondered drearily if the sky could hold it.
Lois sank to the ground in the middle of her apartment and wept big, silent, mournful tears as she became aware that she was alone again.
* * * * * * * * * *
tbc...
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