Title: Man Made Erosion
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own them
Archive: Just let me know where
Feedback: Is delightful - lina_wilson@hotmail.com
Summary: “There’s a tear in her coat, just under the pocket”
Author’s Note: The quote is from the book, “The Art of Imperfection” by Veronique Vienne

~*~

“Signs of natural and man made erosion tell eloquent stories.”

There’s a tear in her coat, just under the pocket. He made it when he grabbed at her, when he tried to stop her walking out his front door. She turned, and the material ripped, but he’s not sure if she even noticed.

There’s a lipstick mark on the collar of his shirt. It’s a cliche and she knew it when she left it there. His friends and strangers will smirk, nudge him in the side, ask about his love life. He’ll have to tell them about her.

There’s a lock of hair missing from the front of her head. He cut it late one night, after she handed him a tiny pair of nail scissors. He twisted a rubber band around it and placed it in an old cigar box.

She stole the shoelaces from his shoes. He doesn’t know what she did with them, but they weren’t there one morning and neither was she. He likes to imagine that she put them in an old wine bottle and cast them off in the Hudson River.

A pen of his leaked all over the inside of one of her favourite purses. He hid it there one evening, during a fund raiser, and they didn’t realise it leaked until the next morning. She threw his defunct pen at him and told him to buy her a new purse.

She left a dirty mark on the back of his door. They were arguing about the press, and he went behind her back to leak an insubsequential rumour. She flew down the hallway to his office and slammed the door. He told her to get over it, and she yelled and kicked the back of his door. He didn’t bother to get it cleaned.

He left a cigar burn in her couch. They were sharing a drink after an event gone well and he made her laugh. She told him off for smoking in his office but she didn’t make him go outside. He blew smoke rings in her direction.

She tore a page from one of his books. It told her something that she needed to know, and the distance to the copier was too far to travel. She ripped it carefully at first, and then quicker, because care didn’t make it better that she was tearing a page from a book. He didn’t realise the page was missing until two years had passed.

He wrote words of comfort in indelible ink in the middle of her desk. Sometimes they made her exasperated, and sometimes they made her laugh. Occasionally they made her cry. Most of the time she just smiled at them. They served the purpose he intended them to serve.

She wrote their names on one of the walls in his office. It would be his office for one week more, but she wanted to keep some part of it forever. She wrote in her neat handwriting, spelling out their full names. Toby Zachary Ziegler. Claudia Jean Cregg.

There’s a tear in her blouse, near the bottom. He pulled it too hard when he was trying to remove it. She heard the material tearing, but was too drunk to care.