'Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.' Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass.
In which a London-based, 25-year-old waitress' life crosses paths with the most sought after musician in the world.
Florence gawked at herself in the mirror of her small, dimly lit bathroom. Its surface was stained with splashes of soap suds and face wash, giving the same essence as a distressed photograph. Half empty bottles of skincare products lay carelessly around the sink before her.
Her eyes and the tops of her cheeks were slightly swollen from her crying the night before. She peered closer at her reflection, prodding the puffy skin, and letting out a long sigh.
She would be lying if she said she wasn't mortified by the vulnerability she bared in front of Harry. It had been torturing her for the past twenty-four hours. A concoction of embarrassment and fear that her weakness might horrify him were eating her up and she couldn't bring herself to think about anything else.
Although Harry had shown nothing but compassion, she couldn't help but wonder if it was an obligatory compassion. A surface level kindness that he felt he ought to provide as she'd cornered him. She believed she had put him on the spot, revealed some of her dark past and made him feel compelled to comfort her against his will.
She lurched forward to wretch over the sink but was unable to bring anything up. When her anxiety reached this level it exacerbated her existing eating habits, stunting her appetite and initiating a feeling of crippling nausea. She had been unable to eat since she'd arrived home this morning and had been battling the urge to throw up from the moment she'd opened her eyes.
Harry had insisted on having his driver bring her home, though she had tried to get the tube.
After her sobbing and staggered breaths had slowed the night before, Harry had leant down to kiss the end of her nose softly. He hadn't ceased to rub her back and hold her close to him the entire time she had cried, but she still felt the need to second guess his authenticity. She had an inbuilt habit of doubting people's intentions, no matter how much reassurance they provided.
"Thank you for sharing that with me Floss." He whispered into her hair, drawing various shapes on her lower back with his fingertips. "I am glad you feel comfortable enough to confide in me. You never have to tell me anything you don't want to, but I'm glad you feel you can speak to me."
"I'm so embarrassed." She exhaled shakily, going to climb off his lap. But he tightened his grip around her before she could make an escape. She turned to look at his concerned features, worry etched over his face.
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"Nope. I'm not listening to that crap." He shook his head making a dark curl of hair fall down onto his forehead, "you're an amazing person Floss, you don't deserve any of the shit you've been put through and have absolutely no reason to feel self-conscious. You didn't choose to have such mistreatment inflicted upon you. You're a victim and have no reason to feel responsible for any of it. Okay?"
