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Murphy’s Law: noun
- a supposed law of nature, expressed in various humorous popular sayings, to the effect that anything that can go wrong will go wrong.
It’s hard for Eva not to laugh, honestly.
She feels bad for it, sure, because Noora’s a mess right now, but therein lies the problem: her hair is damp, clumping to each side of her face, and powder far too fair to be her shade is splashed across her entire face. It sinks down to her collarbones with every moving step, dripping onto the lace of her nude— well, now stark white— bra. Like some sort of twisted yin and yang trick, her formerly ivory button-up shirt is now stained pink thanks to one of Eva’s red scarves that got thrown into the batch of laundry, and Noora’s cheeks are flushed the same color underneath all the makeup.
“You look like a rejected clown,” Eva had said after she’d eased through the first immediate, hiccuping bursts of laughter, and Noora hadn’t taken that too well. In hindsight, Eva can understand why, but also in hindsight, she’d say it again. The sentiment still stands. And sure, the shirt thing is her fault, she’ll admit it; she wasn’t paying attention and she already promised Noora she’d buy her a brand new one.
That doesn’t seem to be quite enough to appease her, though.
“Eva, this isn’t funny!” Noora says for probably the tenth time, flailing frantically in a way that disproves her point. Though Eva’s aware there’s another apology owed on her end, probably multiple, she can’t get it out quite yet— especially not when the fire alarm starts going off, the frittata in the oven burning, and suddenly Noora is cursing Eva again, shoving her out of the way to tend to their long-forgotten breakfast.
Eva wants to take out her phone and snap pictures, maybe even take a video, zoom in on Noora’s pissed face, her blue eyes shooting daggers at her, but the longer Noora stares at her, the more Eva begins to understand that she’s actually, genuinely upset. So she doesn’t.
(She really, really wants to, though.)
The way Noora spins on her next, grimacing and wielding the cast iron skillet as both evidence and a weapon, makes Eva’s laughter falter. If the world wasn’t currently so hell-bent on tormenting Noora, Eva would wish that the ground was going to swallow her whole next.
“Isak sent me a meme,” Eva says by explanation like an absolute idiot, and she’s not at all surprised when Noora’s expression shifts into even deeper irritation, bordering on anger.
“Eva, you’re twenty four,” Noora starts, and Eva knows where this is going already. She thinks to cross her arms and then doesn’t, has an urge to poke a nearby fork into their breakfast to see if its at all edible, and she also has half a mind to peel Noora out of her half-buttoned shirt, find her a new one, and kiss her until she’s managed to remedy the day, pull it out of the rocky territory she’s catapulted it into.
Instead, when Noora finishes her spiel and looks at Eva with an expectant, almost motherly-like gaze (something Eva will absolutely not allow in this very sapphic residency, thank you very much), Eva just says the first thing she can think of: “ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”
Her lips curl up into a smile, head tilted as she leans against the dining table, hoping her lax body language will help calm Noora down. For a minute, she thinks she’s made another terrible mistake, exasperated Noora beyond belief, and that tonight will call for flowers, Japanese takeout, the fancy gelato from the other side of town, and a bubble bath, among multiple verbal sorries. Not that Eva’s complaining about that, since the nights where they make up are always wonderful— hell, maybe she’ll do all that anyways, just because.
But honestly, she doesn’t want Noora to be upset. She’s sorry. She was being silly, trying to lighten the mood, help Noora relax and not take things so seriously, and she’s just about to say all of this, ramble her suddenly uncertain feelings into a string of words that somehow convey more feeling than she’s used to showing at seven in the morning— but then a flash of a smile flits across Noora’s face, so brief Eva almost thinks she’s imagined it.
“Did you really take that,” Noora huffs, pausing for dramatic effect, “word for word, from a meme?”
Eva grins. “Isak’s meme.”
Noora rolls her eyes, lets the pan clatter down to the tabletop. “Of course.”
“So? Do you?”
Noora turns on her heels as soon as Eva leans in.
“In your dreams, Mohn,” she scoffs, but she’s grinning the whole way back to her room, leaving Eva pouty but relieved, the smell of charcoal stuck in her throat.
Of course, Noora’s lips still find Eva’s before she leaves for work—and when she smudges lipstick all over Eva’s cheeks, making her have to redo her makeup too, well, she figures that’s only fair game.