When he sees her again he almost doesn’t believe his eyes. It’s been nearly half a year, to the day, but it’s as though time has folded in on itself and there she stands like she never left.
The door swings shut behind him, creating a breeze just strong enough to ruffle the back hem of his suit jacket. He’s frozen to the spot, unable to اقدام further across the threshold in case the moment shatters.
سیکنڈ tick by.
The mirage, if it is that, doesn’t waver.
And so he lets himself begin to hope as he drinks her in – her tanned skin and wild, sun-lightened curls and the empty space where a golden سٹار, ستارہ should hang. She is a cold glass of water, and he a man lost in the desert for far too long.
Thoughts, words, feelings, phrases all clamour to escape his mouth. They bottleneck at his lips, fighting and clawing at each other to be the first to break free.
He wants to say, I missed you, and, Please say you’re ready to come home.
He wants to tell her how he’s tried to change too, be better. For her.
Wants to let her know how hard it’s been without her, and maybe also finally get out the ‘I love you’ he suspects she’s been able to hear all along.
But, because this isn’t a movie, and there’s no script, and it’s all he can do to remember to breathe, what comes out is: “This is the men’s room.”
Ziva smiles, just slightly (Tony’s دل skips a beat). She pushes away from the counter, coming out of her achingly familiar lean against its surface in a study of casual ease that’s betrayed سے طرف کی the taut lines of her body.
“I am aware,” she says.
“Am I dreaming?” Tony asks. “Because to be honest, I haven’t been sleeping so well. There’s at least a 50/50 chance I’m passed out at my desk, right now.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do آپ often dream of me in the men’s room?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ziva laughs and Tony’s feet come unglued from the floor.
The door swings shut behind him, creating a breeze just strong enough to ruffle the back hem of his suit jacket. He’s frozen to the spot, unable to اقدام further across the threshold in case the moment shatters.
سیکنڈ tick by.
The mirage, if it is that, doesn’t waver.
And so he lets himself begin to hope as he drinks her in – her tanned skin and wild, sun-lightened curls and the empty space where a golden سٹار, ستارہ should hang. She is a cold glass of water, and he a man lost in the desert for far too long.
Thoughts, words, feelings, phrases all clamour to escape his mouth. They bottleneck at his lips, fighting and clawing at each other to be the first to break free.
He wants to say, I missed you, and, Please say you’re ready to come home.
He wants to tell her how he’s tried to change too, be better. For her.
Wants to let her know how hard it’s been without her, and maybe also finally get out the ‘I love you’ he suspects she’s been able to hear all along.
But, because this isn’t a movie, and there’s no script, and it’s all he can do to remember to breathe, what comes out is: “This is the men’s room.”
Ziva smiles, just slightly (Tony’s دل skips a beat). She pushes away from the counter, coming out of her achingly familiar lean against its surface in a study of casual ease that’s betrayed سے طرف کی the taut lines of her body.
“I am aware,” she says.
“Am I dreaming?” Tony asks. “Because to be honest, I haven’t been sleeping so well. There’s at least a 50/50 chance I’m passed out at my desk, right now.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do آپ often dream of me in the men’s room?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ziva laughs and Tony’s feet come unglued from the floor.