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THE PATHOLOGIST entered the room, lights off, cold floor, and windows closed. She could clearly see a void hovering over her, where am I?
She turned her head and marched towards the corner where the light switches are placed, how she wished that her husband must have left it on, or at least have installed a new light technology that could make the light open with just a voice, a clap or a snap of a finger—in that way, she'd be happy. Too lazy. As she switched it on, the circular fluorescent lighted causing her to sigh in relief and run with her bags towards the crème colored sofa residing with them inside the home.
Across her lying figure stood a coffee table made up of hemlock trunk which she hated the most, she looked at it and remembered how small maleficent things happened to her with that table.
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HER FIRST TIME in this house was indeed a good memory, except for a thing— that table. It was merely ten inches high, that the woman never felt its presence so she had hit on it hard when Mycroft had to leave her to take a call. Yes, it hurts, making her tarsal muscles produce such hematoma, a big one.
Next, Molly was reading her edited papers for a medical journal, when she had to dash to the kitchen to check the boiling water in a casserole for the pasta. Once she had made her way back, she realized that her papers were soaked with the tea she had prepared and placed on that table. Such remorse, she failed to submit her work and screwed herself big time.
The most recent as far as she could recall and she would always remember that by the marks left on the wooden table, was when she was with Toby, the cat. Probably, it was the reason why Mycroft hated cats and name them as such monstrous wolverine creatures— the ones that pretended to be so fluffy and cunning are devil's spawns. Toby started to lick the wooden plank and started nipping it and penetrated its claws into it, scraping his way towards its edges. By the time Mycroft had been back from a parliament's meeting— they had a major fight over the fur ball whether to dispose him or not.
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HOWEVER, IT WAS MYCROFT'S favorite thing on earth aside from the fact that it was from an evergreen tree. Shall we say, what her pain is his gain— a principle he'd been constantly thinking, when he's with her.
That time when she had her hematoma, she had stayed with him, the whole week; for she can't walk even a bit. Mycroft needs to take care of his partner for the time— sleep, eat and live with her, sometimes take her to the water closet— and he would be very satisfied to do that.
The next is her mourning over that rejection in that medical journal, just because she had failed to submit her article. Indeed, he could extend the time before it goes to be published but he won't do that, Molly might suspect. So he just did what would a man do to his lady when she's dejected, after a rejection— he fondled her and assured her that everything's all right, then promised her to never be rejected anymore by a simple proposal.
Surely it wasn't the best proposal of all, neither the sweetest, due to the lacking of such romantic atmosphere which of he doesn't even know that exist, but for Molly it was— she never had to feel dejected for there is this man who would always dedicate his time, his devotion to her, who'd always trust her whenever she had failed to trust herself. At least she'd never be lonely again.
A week after their honeymoon, Molly got to redeem Toby from Meena and brought him to their home. It had made the hemlock table into its own furnished scratching post, Mycroft was so furious with such act, and almost killed the cat, that he and Molly even had a fight over it. How petty?
"I'm not going to kill that. Just dispose it. Lifeless." He said and he took off his coat and tie, like a robot nearing to lose its oil.
"No Mycroft, you're not." Molly replied as she sat down at the sofa.
"Why is that so? It's my favorite table." He said as he walked in circles, irritatingly.
"Not my, but Toby." Molly retorted, her head bowed down in a sorrowful manner, her hands clasped around each other.
"What the bloody hell is wrong with you? You rather choose that fur ball than me?" Jealous, illogical Mycroft said as he halt and turned his back to Molly, who shifted from her seat.
Ҕ
Molly walked towards the man and hugged him from behind, her left hand on his chest and the other on his waist, tightly and answered, "I’ll choose you. It's just, if you would be giving justice in keeping your favorite table, then I'd better also keep my favorite. Even if we never both liked each. Sometimes we both need to make sacrifices, Mycroft, and then everything's going to be all fine, just as it should be." Those were the words he kept saying when she felt dejected. Surely, this woman does know how to make things better.
The man turned and rested his forehead against the woman, whom he married, looked at her teary eyes and kissed her lips fully, encasing her body with his arms and warmth. Being drafted by the desire, the sensation and feeling, he let it lose his control and started to carry the woman towards the sofa which she had abandoned and laid her there, snogging until she started pushing him off of her body.
Mycroft, in turn, sat, straighten his back yet shocked of the sudden coldness he had felt after Molly's sudden reaction over their making up.
"As what I've said, we have to make sacrifices, even for a while." Molly uttered, gasping for air.
"Why?"
"We've made it."
Yes. It's simply no pain, no gain, and that's what the devil has been brewing.