Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 24, 2008 18:09:49 GMT -5
Title: Only a Number
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG (for a few very minor sexual references at the end).
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: With Esmé’s thirty-sixth birthday approaching, the idea of being another year older does not set well with her.
Esmé had been sitting at her vanity for most of the morning, obsessively searching for signs of aging. The day had started out as routinely as ever: she had risen late like she always did on the weekends, and after a delicious breakfast that her husband had prepared especially for her, she had gone into the bathroom to shower. It wasn’t until afterward, as she stood before the mirror drying her hair, that she had noticed something that she was positive had not been there the day before.
A silver hair.
Just having even one strand of gray in her soot-black hair had been enough to send the financial advisor into a tirade. During her temperamental outburst, she had managed to make a small dent in the bathroom wall and leave a large crack in one of the floor tiles, sobbing all the while. Her husband had done his best to console her, but she had simply shoved him away.
“Darling, please stop behaving so irrationally,” Jerome said from his place on the bed twenty minutes later. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.” He knew that he was pushing it there, seeing as his wife was only two days shy of her thirty-sixth birthday. But he didn’t see any reason why she should be this upset when everyone who looked at her could see just how incredibly beautiful she was.
“I’m thirty-six, Jerome!” Esmé cried for what must have been the twentieth time in the past hour. “Or I will be come this Friday. That means in four more years I’ll be forty! How can I ever be expected to show my face in public again after that?”
“You’re forgetting, dear, that I am only two years older than you. And you didn’t hear me complaining when I turned thirty-six, did you?”
Esmé peered closer at the mirror, wondering if those markings at the corners of her mouth were dimples or age lines. “Oh, shut up, Jerome! You’re a man! Men don’t take nearly as much pride in their appearance as women do.”
“Who said anything about appearance?” Jerome asked. “I thought we were talking about age.”
“Well, age ties into the same category.”
“Sweetheart, I really think you’re making too much of this. Thirty-six is only a number.”
“I should start coloring my hair,” replied Esmé absentmindedly.
With a sigh that was as heavy as his heart, Jerome slid off the bed and walked over to the vanity. Pulling up a footstool, he sat down beside his wife. Reaching over, he flipped the mirror around so that Esmé was no longer examining her reflection and instead would be forced to focus on his face.
“Do you remember two years ago,” Jerome began, “when I first started putting on weight?”
Esmé turned her face towards her husband, and smiled gently. “I thought it was flattering,” she said, “how you placed all of the blame on my cooking.”
“I was worried you might start to find me unattractive.”
“Never.” Reaching up, Esmé placed the palms of both hands around her husband’s chubby cheeks, and squeezed them both gently. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe you’ve ever looked more handsome than you do right now.”
Upon hearing his wife speak those words, Jerome’s face turned a noticeable shade of pink. “I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he told her. “But we aren’t talking about me, Esmé. We’re talking about you.”
“Well, maybe I don’t feel like talking,” Esmé said, and flipped the mirror around once more. Jerome frowned. “Maybe all I want to do is watch the only thing I’ve ever taken pride in slowly fade away.”
Jerome hated to see his wife so depressed, especially over something as trivial as her age. He knew that whatever he had to say (“Thirty-six is only a number” and “You’re only as young as you feel”) would have little to no affect on Esmé, who had always been hopelessly obsessed with her looks. She would be pouting for the remainder of the day, he knew, and most definitely on her birthday. Jerome had a whole celebration planned, and now it was going to go to waste all because Esmé would surely refuse to participate in any of the festivities. Her husband wanted to scold her for being so childish, but the expression on her angelic face was so desperately sad that it was impossible for him to be even a little angry with her.
“Darling, please don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jerome said sadly. “I think you’re absolutely beautiful, and everyone else who sees you would agree.” He reached out to caress Esmé’s bare arm, which was halfway visible through the sleeve of the white overlay she was wearing on top of her nightgown. Both of her wrists were clad in a multitude of gold and silver bracelets, which jingled as she yanked her arm away.
Jerome’s frown deepened.
Esmé stared almost blindly into the mirror at her reflection, unable to recall if the creases that appeared in her forehead as she knotted her eyebrows together in annoyance were normal. “Jerome,” she said softly, trailing her long-nailed fingertips slowly down her soft, pale cheek. “I’m scared.” Turning once more to her husband, she simply emphasized what she had already made quite clear: “I’m scared.”
“Of what, Esmé?” Jerome asked. “What frightens you so much about getting older?”
A tear rolled down Esmé’s cheek, and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, and Jerome wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, closing her eyes as she permitted her tears to take full control. “It just does.”
“What is it that scares you the most, my darling?”
Esmé let out a quivering breath, and replied, “The idea that I won’t be able to have anymore children.”
“But I always assumed—” Jerome began, and stopped when Esmé’s tearful blue eyes met his shimmering green ones. “Oh, Esmé! Do you really want more?”
Her lower lip trembling, Esmé nodded.
“You won’t be able to color your hair once you’ve conceived.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll start to gain weight.”
“You’re always saying that I’m too skinny.”
“Sweetheart,” Jerome said, tracing one finger over Esmé’s throat and down between her breasts, to where his hand stopped just below her bellybutton and pressed gently. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for the day in which you’d finally come to me and ask to have my children?”
Smiling through her tears, Esmé said, “Exactly six years and three months.”
“You looked so beautiful during those nine months you carried Emma,” Jerome continued. “It would be a dream come true to see you in that same light again— to let me take care of you like I did the first time.”
Esmé cuddled closer to her husband, so that his palm— which was still resting on her stomach —pressed a little more firmly against it. She purred blissfully, and Jerome gave a contented chirp.
“Jerome,” Esmé said.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Let’s get started.”
That was all Jerome needed to hear before he scooped his wife up into his arms, and carried her toward the bed.
It was going to be a productive afternoon.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG (for a few very minor sexual references at the end).
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: With Esmé’s thirty-sixth birthday approaching, the idea of being another year older does not set well with her.
***
Esmé had been sitting at her vanity for most of the morning, obsessively searching for signs of aging. The day had started out as routinely as ever: she had risen late like she always did on the weekends, and after a delicious breakfast that her husband had prepared especially for her, she had gone into the bathroom to shower. It wasn’t until afterward, as she stood before the mirror drying her hair, that she had noticed something that she was positive had not been there the day before.
A silver hair.
Just having even one strand of gray in her soot-black hair had been enough to send the financial advisor into a tirade. During her temperamental outburst, she had managed to make a small dent in the bathroom wall and leave a large crack in one of the floor tiles, sobbing all the while. Her husband had done his best to console her, but she had simply shoved him away.
“Darling, please stop behaving so irrationally,” Jerome said from his place on the bed twenty minutes later. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.” He knew that he was pushing it there, seeing as his wife was only two days shy of her thirty-sixth birthday. But he didn’t see any reason why she should be this upset when everyone who looked at her could see just how incredibly beautiful she was.
“I’m thirty-six, Jerome!” Esmé cried for what must have been the twentieth time in the past hour. “Or I will be come this Friday. That means in four more years I’ll be forty! How can I ever be expected to show my face in public again after that?”
“You’re forgetting, dear, that I am only two years older than you. And you didn’t hear me complaining when I turned thirty-six, did you?”
Esmé peered closer at the mirror, wondering if those markings at the corners of her mouth were dimples or age lines. “Oh, shut up, Jerome! You’re a man! Men don’t take nearly as much pride in their appearance as women do.”
“Who said anything about appearance?” Jerome asked. “I thought we were talking about age.”
“Well, age ties into the same category.”
“Sweetheart, I really think you’re making too much of this. Thirty-six is only a number.”
“I should start coloring my hair,” replied Esmé absentmindedly.
With a sigh that was as heavy as his heart, Jerome slid off the bed and walked over to the vanity. Pulling up a footstool, he sat down beside his wife. Reaching over, he flipped the mirror around so that Esmé was no longer examining her reflection and instead would be forced to focus on his face.
“Do you remember two years ago,” Jerome began, “when I first started putting on weight?”
Esmé turned her face towards her husband, and smiled gently. “I thought it was flattering,” she said, “how you placed all of the blame on my cooking.”
“I was worried you might start to find me unattractive.”
“Never.” Reaching up, Esmé placed the palms of both hands around her husband’s chubby cheeks, and squeezed them both gently. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe you’ve ever looked more handsome than you do right now.”
Upon hearing his wife speak those words, Jerome’s face turned a noticeable shade of pink. “I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he told her. “But we aren’t talking about me, Esmé. We’re talking about you.”
“Well, maybe I don’t feel like talking,” Esmé said, and flipped the mirror around once more. Jerome frowned. “Maybe all I want to do is watch the only thing I’ve ever taken pride in slowly fade away.”
Jerome hated to see his wife so depressed, especially over something as trivial as her age. He knew that whatever he had to say (“Thirty-six is only a number” and “You’re only as young as you feel”) would have little to no affect on Esmé, who had always been hopelessly obsessed with her looks. She would be pouting for the remainder of the day, he knew, and most definitely on her birthday. Jerome had a whole celebration planned, and now it was going to go to waste all because Esmé would surely refuse to participate in any of the festivities. Her husband wanted to scold her for being so childish, but the expression on her angelic face was so desperately sad that it was impossible for him to be even a little angry with her.
“Darling, please don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jerome said sadly. “I think you’re absolutely beautiful, and everyone else who sees you would agree.” He reached out to caress Esmé’s bare arm, which was halfway visible through the sleeve of the white overlay she was wearing on top of her nightgown. Both of her wrists were clad in a multitude of gold and silver bracelets, which jingled as she yanked her arm away.
Jerome’s frown deepened.
Esmé stared almost blindly into the mirror at her reflection, unable to recall if the creases that appeared in her forehead as she knotted her eyebrows together in annoyance were normal. “Jerome,” she said softly, trailing her long-nailed fingertips slowly down her soft, pale cheek. “I’m scared.” Turning once more to her husband, she simply emphasized what she had already made quite clear: “I’m scared.”
“Of what, Esmé?” Jerome asked. “What frightens you so much about getting older?”
A tear rolled down Esmé’s cheek, and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, and Jerome wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, closing her eyes as she permitted her tears to take full control. “It just does.”
“What is it that scares you the most, my darling?”
Esmé let out a quivering breath, and replied, “The idea that I won’t be able to have anymore children.”
“But I always assumed—” Jerome began, and stopped when Esmé’s tearful blue eyes met his shimmering green ones. “Oh, Esmé! Do you really want more?”
Her lower lip trembling, Esmé nodded.
“You won’t be able to color your hair once you’ve conceived.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll start to gain weight.”
“You’re always saying that I’m too skinny.”
“Sweetheart,” Jerome said, tracing one finger over Esmé’s throat and down between her breasts, to where his hand stopped just below her bellybutton and pressed gently. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for the day in which you’d finally come to me and ask to have my children?”
Smiling through her tears, Esmé said, “Exactly six years and three months.”
“You looked so beautiful during those nine months you carried Emma,” Jerome continued. “It would be a dream come true to see you in that same light again— to let me take care of you like I did the first time.”
Esmé cuddled closer to her husband, so that his palm— which was still resting on her stomach —pressed a little more firmly against it. She purred blissfully, and Jerome gave a contented chirp.
“Jerome,” Esmé said.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Let’s get started.”
That was all Jerome needed to hear before he scooped his wife up into his arms, and carried her toward the bed.
It was going to be a productive afternoon.
The End