Disclaimer: Sadly I do not own Gattaca. *sigh* Hope you enjoy!
As Jerome handed me the pianist's glove, a thought flashed through my head—I forget it now—something about my heart. I slipped it on, the warm silk engulfing my icy hand—and an extra finger hung off between my pinky and my ring finger. Jerome frowned at it a moment. I laughed and then he smiled. It made me so happy. Fingers, hearts, bald heads, eyes that are two different colors, large waistlines, astigmatism, birthmarks, big feet, everything that seemed wrong was really perfect. Everything that seemed perfect was wrong. As I fiddled with the extra finger, I could feel Jerome watching me. I pretended not to notice. He was saying something but I couldn't hear him. We made eye contact and I saw the handsome sparkle in his eye as he motioned with his head to the door of the concert hall.
"Irene," he said. He said it loudly—no, it was simply quiet in the hallway where we stood, especially compared to the roaring audience of the piano concert. It's funny how excited these people were to hear a six-fingered man play the piano. Everyone was dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos. I heard a muffled version of the song the musician played last—an encore—through the heavy doors.
I tilted my head up at him and pondered briefly about how utterly beautiful he was. "Yes, Jerome," I said.
My heart stopped for a moment as I registered that Jerome had just said this to me-Jerome had just said this. To me. God.
I blushed deeply—I am such a child in this way; I can never stop the beet red that flushes my cheeks at the most inopportune times—and smiled. "Jerome, you flatter me—"
"No. You are beautiful. Let me kiss you, please," he said with a furrowed brow.
And that is when I almost died of happiness.
My heart pounded and pounded against my rib cage, as if it were trying to escape. I wanted so badly to melt into his arms and stay there forever. But somehow—somehow I felt I had to resist. It was almost impossible, but something wasn't right. "Jerome. Why do you want to do this? I'm not trying to be the girl who puts herself down all the time, really I'm not, but…of all the girls in the world, of all the girls in this building…why would you choose the imperfect one? Me?"
"You simply don't understand, Irene, you beautiful, beautiful woman. I am so much less than I seem to be. Trust me. I'm not perfect. This is. We are, Irene Cassini."
He took my still gloved hand in his gigantic one and rubbed it with his thumb for a moment. We met eyes and slowly he moved his hands around my waist. My left arm went around his neck as the right touched his chest. Our lips met. . .