Ghost of You

t h i r t y - t h r e e

People say that a watched pot never boils. It's a stupid expression if you ask me, since scientifically at a high enough temperature, water will always inevitably begin to boil in a pot. Whatever it is that we are waiting impatiently for still does eventually come, no matter how restless or agitated we are while we bide our time. A much more accurate expression would be something like, a watched pot seems to boil slower than a watched pot, but that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue as easily as the original statement. I suppose what the saying is trying to get at is that time seems to move at a slower pace when we are overly exicted or anxious when it comes to waiting for something, a mere phrase meant to advice against avidity befriending frustration. 

I'm not normally one to question the validity of these kinds of phrases. The saying just sort of popped into my head as I stared at the water-filled pot I had placed on the stove. This had been happening more and more in the days since I had left the cemetery. Little sayings, catchy blurbs of advice were constantly running through my head the way they had probably ran through my mom's. In the absence of hearing them from my mom, I seemed to be reproducing them myself tenfold in some subconscious hopeless attempt to take up the now empty mantle.

The bubbles were just beginning to rise to the surface, simmering as I waited next to the pot, box of penne in hand. I had just finished my fourth session with Dr. Cynthia, this one no more productive than any of the previous. After each, my mind would be so bogged down in the efforts of her communication that I would have been perfectly happy not to speak to anyone for hours on end. I just wanted to eat my pasta and then lay in bed. 

I stared indifferently at the bubbles in the water, my elbow leaning on the counter and my chin resting in my hand. When I had deemed that it was fully boiling, I began pouring the rest of the contents of the box into the pot. 

"Hi!"

A loud, chipper and unfamiliar voice echoed in the high ceiling above the kitchen. Surprised by the noise, I jumped on instinct sending a few of the noodles flying out from the box and rolling across the counter. In the days since I had returned to the compound pretty much nobody except for Tony had talked to me. Not that I minded, I liked the quiet, the absence of the need for me to participate in any sort of conversation. That was probably part of the reason that the noise took me by surprise the way it did. I quickly turned around to determine the source.

A boy in jeans and a grey hoodie was staring at me from across the counter. He had sort of shaggy brown hair and choclate eyes that matched his complexion. He was kind of short, but also seemed rather young, so he might have still been going through puberty. I don't think I'd seen anyone under the age of twenty at the compound ever and despite the fact that we were alone in the kitchen, he still somehow managed to stick out like a sore thumb.

"Uhh hi." I replied, picking up the few stray noodles and tossing them back in the pot. "Are you lost?"

"No, no I'm Peter!" He said excitedly, rocking back and forth on his feet. "I work with Mr. Stark!"

The boy radiated enthusiasm. Every sentence he spoke made it seem like the words out of his mouth were informing me he had just one the lottery. A large smile was stretched from ear to ear as he bobbed up and down slightly.

"How old are you?" I inquired, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Fifteen." He answered quickly before adding. "And a few of months."

"Christ." I exhaled turning back to the pot, picking up a wooden spoon and spinning the noodles around so they wouldn't get stuck together. 

I knew Tony must have been short staffed after the departure of Steve, Nat, Sam and Wanda but I never thought he'd go looking into high schoolers to solve that problem. What the hell was he thinking?