Hold On
by: Jeff Rutsch

     I wonder what mother had done, so many years before?  Did she rush
out to greet father with open arms, before he could even open the
door?  Did she eagerly await his entry, and then spring to him when he
entered, like a delighted puppy?  Did she pretend nothing was out of
the ordinary, and let him make the first move?

     It was hard to tell.  Perhaps she did little more than I.  After
all, I could only remember her last anniversary.  It had been a
special day, of course.  She cleaned the house as well as it had ever
been cleaned, and arranged for the three of us to spend the night at
our friend's houses.  I giggled.  At the time I had no idea why, I
only remembered being happy to spend the night out.

     She spent the whole day cleaning the house, and waxing the
floors, and on top of that she even made us all snacks to take to our
friends' houses.  And when father called to say he'd soon be back from
his training, she spent the next hour prettying herself up.  I saw her
just a few minutes before she left for the restaurant with father, and
I remember thinking she looked like a princess.  Of course you could
tell it was still her, but she somehow looked so much more beautiful.
She was a veritable slit of beauty, surrounded by the palpable
confines of her fur jacket.  But even if I was following the same
routine-sans children, unfortunately-I couldn't help but worry that
perhaps mother's first hadn't been quite the same as their last.  I
mean, everyone knows that the first anniversary is supposed to be the
most romantic.  Should I have made dinner arrangements at a fancier
restaurant?  Should I have not made any dinner arrangements at all?  I
am a good cook, after all.  Of course, we're not pressed for money,
and you're not supposed to cook on your anniversary.

     He walked through the door.  I didn't even notice until the door
started to open.  As quickly as possible, I ran from the bedroom to
the door to hug him.  I stopped when I saw that he held something
behind his back.

     "For my wife," he said slowly, without a hint of the
silliness so evident when we first married, "on our first
anniversary." Reaching from behind his back he pulled out a bouquet of
flowers.

     "You shouldn't have!" I exclaimed, knowing full well he had too.
That's how it had always been.  On birthdays and anniversaries, father
always brought home flowers, after all.

     I went to put the flowers in a vase I had already prepared, and
came back to hug him.  He hugged me back, and kissed me solidly.

     He ended the kiss abruptly.  I stood back and looked at his face.

     "Thanks for the flowers," I said, eventually.

     "It was nothing."  We paused.  We didn't know what to say.

     "So," I asked, "how was work at the hospital?"

     He looked at me.  "It was, you know, just a day."  He paused,
looked at me, and continued.  "A day made all the much better from
anticipation of coming home."

     "Oh dear.  Did things not go so well?"

     "It didn't go so well, no."

     "Oh my!  What happened?" I asked.  He sat down, looked at me a
bit sadly, and responded.

     "Well, do you remember Mr. Watashi?"

     "Yes, what of him?"

     "His arteries got clogged.  It could have been fatal."

     I giggled.  "You know I don't understand your medical terms."

     "Basically, his heart stopped-"

     "Stopped working?"

     "No.  It's working all right.  But the blood has nowhere to go."

     "Oh my!"

     "Yes, you can say that again.  I had to call a specialist in, and
get him serious medical attention."

     "That's terrible."

     "I don't think he'll ever completely recover.  Sometimes-" he
paused, and looked at the floor.

     "Yes?"

     "Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing more harm than good.  General
care is so outdated.  If that man had a specialist from the beginning,
it never would have been gotten that far."

     I smiled at him.  "Well, I'm sure whatever you're doing is the
right thing.  You're very smart."

     "Sometimes, sometimes-" he paused.  "I'm sorry.  It's our
anniversary.  We shouldn't be talking about this."

     I laughed.  "No, go ahead.  It's your right to talk about
whatever you want."

     "No, no I shouldn't.  I'm being selfish.  I'm sorry."

     "Well, maybe you shouldn't talk about that on our anniversary.  I
mean, it is supposed to be a special day for the two of us.  You can
talk about work later."

     He looked up at me and sighed.  "Yes, I suppose you're right.
So, you said you would make dinner reservations at the Tenei Moofu?"

     "Yes, I did."

     "Great.  Let's get ready to go."

     "The reservations aren't for another hour and a half."

     "I'm sure we can find something to occupy ourselves in the
meantime."

**

     "I don't know," I said, "This is awful far to walk."

     "I thought it might be fun to go for a walk," he protested.

     "Yes, you're right.  Good idea!" I said, and smiled cheerfully.
He was awfully clever.

     For a long we walked in silence, hands around each other's
waists.  It was a while before he spoke again.

     "You know-", he said, waiting for me to look back at him.  "In
the year we've been married, I've come to love you more every day."

      What a nice thing for him to say!  I smiled.

     "Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible.

     "When I first met you, I never would dream that one day you would
be my wife."

     "Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible.

     "And once I realized I loved you, I never thought you would be
able to love me back."

     "But I do."

     "And I'm glad of it," he said.

     "Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible.  He sighed.  It took
him a while to resume our conversation.

     "You know, I was thinking, today-"

     "Yes?" I asked, eventually.

     "Just, just out of curiosity-"  He paused.  "Just out of
curiosity, how do you see yourself?"

     I laughed.  "What a silly question!"  And it was, really.

     "Maybe.  But how?" he asked.

     "What do you mean?"

     "Do you see yourself as my wife?  Do you see yourself as an
independent person who happens to be married to me?  Do you see
yourself as the leader of a future family?  Do you see yourself as the
heart of the home?"

     "I don't-"  I paused.  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

     "What are you?" he asked, almost yelling.  I looked at him,
unsure of what he meant.

     "I'm not - I'm not sure what you mean."

     "What I'm asking is - never mind," he said, almost
apologetically.  "Never mind.  It's a stupid question.  I shouldn't
have asked it."

     "It's not a stupid question.  Just explain to me what you mean!
I'm sure I'll understand eventually."

     "Never mind.  It was a stupid question."

     "Oh, all right, then."

**

     The food really was quite good.  He had ordered beef, and it
arrived grilled to perfection, with a wide selection of sauces to dip
it in.  He had also ordered a sampler of sashimi.  There were many
different types of fish available, and all looked very good.  The
octopus, I recall, looked particularly fresh.

     Myself, I had a salad.

     He looked up at me, and finished the food that was in his mouth.
"So you say you've done a lot of cleaning today?"

     "Yes."

     "Not doing anything different for our anniversary?"  He paused.
"I mean, I'm just curious.  I'd think you'd want to take the day off."

     "Well, I didn't cook today, of course.  Except for breakfast and
lunch."

     "You don't have to do that, you know.  It's not a big deal for
you to drop by a restaurant, or just order food.  I've told you, we're
not pressed for money."

     "I know that.  But-"

     "But what?"

     "Well, it doesn't seem right.  Mother never would have gone out
for food.  And she wasn't poor, either."

     "She wouldn't have gone out, even on her anniversary?"

     "Especially not then."

     "Especially?"

     "Yes, that's what I said."

     "I mean-" he paused.  "I mean, why do you say 'especially not on
her anniversary?'"

     "Oh.  That.  Well, I don't know.  I guess mother was always
cleaning one thing or another.  But on her anniversary, I remember it
was so much - so much more important.  The work had acquired a certain
intentness.  The work was, really, infatuation."

     "I'm sure it was.  But it still seems odd."

     "Well-"  I thought for a second on how to phrase what I was
thinking.  "If you could have been there, I think you would know what
I mean.  The cooking, the cleaning - even as a child I knew it wasn't
really necessary, that mother could have gotten hired help if she
wanted.  She did it because she wanted to.  It was there that I
realized that the chores, chores other people like to call 'domestic',
are, really, love."

     "But there's so many other ways-" he continued.  I cut him off.

     "No there's-"  I paused, embarrassed at having interrupted him.
He motioned for me to continue.

     "There isn't.  Well, maybe there's other things, like kissing,
like how you treat the person, but that's of less importance."

     "Less importance?"

     "Yes.  Cooking and cleaning - you're showing the person that you
care.  That you want them to have a good place to live, to have good
food to eat."

     "That's of more importance than how you act?"

     "Yes!" I hated to raise my voice.  But that was something you
weren't supposed to question.  Not even him.

     "Okay," he replied.  "I mean, I'm just curious.  I'm not
disagreing.  But, well, even if that shows that you love me, then how
does it show that I love you?"

     I paused and contemplated the question.

     "But of course you love me!" I answered, confused.

     "I know that!" he yelled, suddenly.  He paused for a few seconds,
calming down.  "I mean, of course I love you.  But how do I show it?"

     "No, No, No."  I responded.  "Of course, I'm not - I'm not
doubting you.  I'm just saying, of course you love me!  You're my
husband!"

     "I know.  But, well, how am I supposed to show it?"

     "You, you don't need to show.  After all, you're my husband.  Of
course you love me."

**

     "So," he said, "that was great.  I love that restaurant.  I'm
glad you got reservations there."

     "It's the same one my father used to take my mother to, you
know."

     "No, I didn't know that.  But-" he paused.  "But I'm not
surprised."

     "Of course not.  Let me get your jacket," I answered.  He started
wriggling his way out of the jacket.

     "Let me get that in the bedroom," I said, hinting as subtly as
possible.

     "Oh yes.  Of course."  He walked over to the bedroom, slipped out
of his jacket, and went to hang it up on the rack.  I stopped him,
took the jacket, and hanged it up myself.  When I finished, I paused,
went to sit on the bed, and looked up at him.

     "So what now?" I asked.

     "Huh?"

     I looked down, pretending to be embarrassed.  "Aren't you
supposed to..."

     After a few seconds, he spoke.

     "I love you," he said, spuriously.

     "And I love you too."

     He put his hands on my dress and unzipped the back.  I sat there,
motionless.  When he was done I stood up, and let him slip the dress
off of me.  Similarly, I undressed him, taking his suit and resting it
on a chair, folding it as quickly as possible.

     We looked at each other.  He walked up to me, held me, and
slipped off my bra.  I turned off the light, slipped out of my
panties, and dragged him onto the bed.

     He was soft.  Completely.

**

     I woke up in the middle of the night, forlorn.  I rolled out of
the spoon position and stared at the ceiling.

     I don't know why I felt so bad.  It wasn't that I had been
particularly looking forward to the - how do I put this - physical
consummation.  But everybody knows that's supposed to happen on
anniversaries!  In a silly way I felt guilty, like when you don't
drink on New Year's, or when you don't put out a koi for Boy's Day.
Even if you don't like drinking, even if koi kites are silly, that's
what you're supposed to do!  Everyone knows that!

     I remember when I was a girl, and the mysterious noises from my
parent's room.  I never knew what the noises were, I never even knew
until I myself was married, really.  But, well, they happened more
often than happened with us.  I'm sure of it.  And I was in my first
year of marriage.  Oh god.  That was part of being a wife.  Part of
your duty.  Oh god, what was wrong with me?  I was letting my husband,
and therefore myself, down.

     I rolled back into the spoon position, pressing myself hard into his 
body.  He didn't stir.  I cried myself to sleep.

**

     Hello!  Hope you enjoyed the story!

     It started as "That Crawling Baby Blues", but on a responder's
advice I decided to make the darkness more subtle, so I took the ideas
and started over.  Plus I added my general idea that if I knew Kasumi in
real life, I'd kick her sorry ass!!!

     I owe a big debt on this one to Mr. Lewis and Mr. Lawson, both of
whose stories and comments more-or-less inspired this thingy here.  

     This was *going* to contain my first lemon scene, but
conventional lemon scenes are so blech to read, and what I was doing
was so surreal, that I cut it.  The scene was to be the climax of the fic
(no pun intended), but I think I like the story's feel, lacking a
climax or anything more tangible than the words "spurious" and
"infatuation."  I dunnow.  Probably that's just me; fortunately, I'm
mainly writing for myself ^_^.

I would appreciate all comments and suggestions.  Flames are welcome,
as long as they're verbose ^_^.


Thanks for reading,

Jeff


****jdrutsch@ucdavis.edu***********************Jeff Rutsch***************** 
I -I -I-I *"She's a kind hearted woman, she studies evil all the time.
IV-IV-I-I * She's a kind hearted woman, she studies evil all the time.
V -IV-I-I * You well's to kill me, as to have it on your mind."-R. Johnson
**^_^***.daed si luaP**^_^**Bird Lives**^_^**Ranma Loves Akane**^_^****^_^*