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The Falling

Summary:
In the action itself, she is weightless and free. The flight is not to be feared, only the impact. A story on the life of Esme Cullen. Image Hosted by ImageShack.us Banner By incredible Iris!


Notes:
I may submit this to the official site. What do you think?


51. Chapter 51

Rating 5/5   Word Count 546   Review this Chapter

That you’re falling

“Good morning, Esme.”

I smile up at my husband, who has just woken me. His eyes are warm and soft. “Good morning.”

He takes my hand, gentle as always, and pulls me to my feet. “I made breakfast.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispers. “I like doing things for you.”

“No, darling. I meant you shouldn’t have. You’re a terrible cook.”

He laughs. “Well, come try it.”

I was teasing, of course. He’s a good cook. He’s good at everything. It can actually be kind of frustrating. One would think that, as I’m a woman, I would have more natural domestic abilities than him. Apparently, his talent for life in general supercedes boundaries of sex and experience.

How irritating.

Then again, if he weren’t totally perfect, I wouldn’t really know what to do. And I wouldn’t be eating this delicious breakfast. “Pancakes- my favorite.”

“I know you well, my darling.”

“You certainly do.”

He laughs. I marvel again how beautiful a sound it is- sweet and low and deep, like a bell bouncing of water. “Eat up, love.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No. I have to get to work.”

I watch him leave. He is such a sweet husband. I love him.

I finish the pancakes silently, mopping up the last of the sweet syrup with my fork. The sweetness lingers on my tongue, thick and deep. It catches in my throat as I begin my day’s work.

I start by folding the laundry I hung to dry yesterday. The first item is his shirt. Though thoroughly cleaned, I can still catch traces of his smell in the crisp white fabric. I press it to my nose and smile.

Then I carefully fold the fabric. I force it into sharp lines and then repeat the action with the rest of the clothes, making each garment into an identical package of square material, neat and clean.

There is a pleasure in this work, this homemaking. I’m surprised by how much it suits me. It is nice to do the simple things for the one I love. It’s so easy, too. Truly, I can do everything with very little mental capacity required. The rest of me can be devoted to daydreams as I perfect the folds.

It’s soothing, too. It fills the days alone and allows him to have his life unfettered by worries about simple stupid things like his clothes. He has me to take care of that so he can do his great works in the world.

Helpmate. That’s me, doing the little things. I always found that term patronizing, offensive. Now I find it suits me. That is, after all, what I want to do. Make his life better and easier, do things for him, help in any way I can.

It is true. I never feel inferior to him. My work in our home is every bit as important as his out of it. After all, he couldn’t do what he does without me, and the real part of his life that matters is what we have together.

In daydreams of different