We don't want to label it

XVIII

Her key in the lock rings loud, loud in the silence that has pervaded him. He's not even put music on, his headphones are there, in the drawer, his phone upside down on his coffee table. He's been quiet. Broody, he guesses Brett would say. 
And even though he's been quiet the whole time since he's come home from rehearsal he still has no idea what he wants to say. 
He's run conversation after conversation in his head. He's stared at his pale reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered how any words would come across. 
But she's here now, looking spectacularly beautiful in red silk. And he knows what's underneath the red silk. He averts his eyes and looks at the tote she holds. 
"Hey." she says. She walks over and hesitates for a millisecond. Then she leans over and kisses him.
And what's he going to do? Say no, I don't want your kiss?
Because that's going to lead to anything productive?
"Hey."
"I brought stuff." She smiles and walks to the kitchen counter, starts unpacking the tote. Rice, of course. The one he likes. Courgette. Onions. Tofu. Eggs. She lines all of the shopping she's done up on the counter, large to small like the world's weirdest Matrushka dolls. And still he hasn't said anything apart from hey. 
He'll have to work on his vocabulary. 
But look, what is there to say, anyway? She knows he's been mad. She's said she's sorry. 
"So, how was rehearsal?" she says quietly as she picks up the wok from the cupboard and reaches for the oil. And this is his moment, if he's ever going to take it. He can feel the words, he can see a different Eddy, a more assertive Eddy getting up and saying no, I want to talk about this first, you crossed a line, and now I have to have dinner tomorrow with my worried mum who will grill me to the bone, and this is not okay. 
Is there any of that that would be news to her, though? And if he did say, would the temperature plunge, would the atmosphere become icy? Would she, in fact, tell him she has a headache, and go home?
Just then she walks over and holds out her hand. 
"Can I have a hug?" she says in the sweetest, purest tone. 

The words in Eddy's mind swirl and turn, then start to dissipate. What point is there to them, anyway? He tries a smile and finds that his lips obey him. Then he nods. 
"Okay." he says. 
Her eyes light up and she sits down on his lap, throws her arm around him so her breast, covered in silk, brushes his cheek. He could nip it, if he just turned his head. Does she know? His anger softens through the hug. Yes, what she did was wrong. But she didn't mean it to be that bad, did she? Maybe she wasn't thinking?
Maybe she is really looking out for him, and that is all there is to it? 
She gets up and walks back to the kitchen, her red dress swirling smoothly around her legs. Her eyes are shining as she picks up an onion and starts chopping it. 
"So, I found an accompanist at last for the recital." she says, her voice back to normal now. She's graduating, this year. She's doing a few concerts here and there to prepare. The last vestiges of the words that Eddy could say dissipate through the crack in the door and they're gone. 
I mean, what's left to say? 
"That's awesome." he tells her. "A student?"
"Yeah, fourth year. She's good. We're thinking about forming a duo. We were talking at lunch. Would be good for competitions and stuff."
"That's great, Tory." he says with an enthusiasm he almost believes himself. "That's great."