It was one of those quieter evenings, where
he’d slip home unannounced, tiptoe-ing around
his reading wife— though never surreptitiously nor
suspiciously. He was an open book, and Remy
read him all too well, but perhaps that’s due to the
amount of time she had to spend studying him
and him only, after leaving the practice of one,
Doctor Gregory House.
Except tonight was different.
He slips in whilst her dress does the same up her
body, like silk on skin, smoothly. He doesn’t say a
word, so she does, reminding him that they were
late. Or rather, he's late. Verily, Remy's ready now—
dark hair in a swivelled bun, decked in nothing more
extravagant than her classic black dresses. The
exhibition’s the only event she’s been to that’s remotely
exciting this month, yet even then, he probably couldn’t
tell, from the silent car ride to the museum. Remy knows
all she’ll be is arm candy for him tonight, he never paid
attention to culture, which made the gesture of getting
her the tickets sweet on his part. That’s how he is, her
James, subtle and gentle compared to her whirlwind of
a past. That’s what she loved about him.
Heels clicked against the marble flooring as they stepped
in, fingers intertwined. But with the nature of Remy, she’s
already wandered halfway across the room, stolen from
him. And he doesn’t mind, stranded alone at the bar. At
least she’s having fun.