some tedrebecca fluff to start off your day
The knowledge that it was going to happen had been there from the start, the real beginning. He said he’d stay on for three seasons, and one season had already been knocked out. Two more in rainy old London, and then back to Kansas, with its—she wasn’t exactly sure of the temperament of its skies, or the exacts of its weather patterns, but she presumed it was sunnier there. More tornadoes?
The end of that duration of time was coming up. She was pretending it wasn’t, and she was doing a fine job of blocking it out. It came through, though, sometimes—when it did, it hit her like a finger to the socket. The re-realization of the inevitable could hit during a meeting. When she closed her eyes for a nap. When she was holding Mark from finance’s little boy in her arms after he’d brought her to work for the first time. She was doing well, however, at picking up whatever piece had escaped and putting it back into its designated box.
They had a real shot at winning it all, and Ted said as much as they approached the finish line. “We’re gonna hit the clouds,” he said one morning in her office. “And we ain’t yet reached terminal velocity, and those cumulonimbus’ ain’t made of solid. When we win, you get to finally have me outta your hair,” he said in jest.
She couldn’t take it as a joke, and she couldn’t piece herself together enough to play along. _No_ was all her brain was saying.
“No,” her mouth said, face turning to stone.
His teasing smile dissipated.
“Nobody wants you ‘out of their hair,” she said.
They said, whoever they were, that the Hoover Dam would be one of the last remaining human-created structures to remain on the planet. The picture of fortitude. Yet, water still gushed through the thing, with a terrifying intensity.
She was that fucking dam, with the floodgates open, words in place of water. Much too loud.
“What are we supposed to do, Ted, when you go back to the States.” It wasn’t fair of her to be doing this, but she was doing this. She was saying it.
A crease had appeared between his brows.
“What are we to do—” she glanced to her left, for a fraction of a second, over to the shelves against the wall, and looked at the vase he had gifted her “—when anyone can look around and see all that you’ve done for this club over the past three years. The mark you’ve left, the spirit you’ve instilled. The stick-on mustaches at the external vendors throughout the town? They’re not going to just stop selling them. You are now synonymous with AFC Richmond.”
She couldn’t look away from the wide eyes that she was the cause of.
“What am I supposed to do,” she croaked out, “when you’re gone.”
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