She

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, a mug clamped between her hands. She’s grasping it so tightly that her knuckles have turned a blotchy white and I can hear the bones of her wrist click and pop. She sits very still-hardly seeming to breathe. She hasn’t moved since The Argument (serious enough to be capitalised) Her tea will be cold, I think, irrationally. 1

“Your tea’s getting cold,” I say, irrationally.2

"Shut up.” She says. Her teeth are clenched.3

“I’ll just…uh…I’ll just…you know…get…my things….now.”4

She says nothing. Just stares out of the window. Her back is turned towards me, standing in the doorway watching her. She’s still holding on to the mug.5

I turn and go into our bedroom…her bedroom…and start to rifle through the wardrobe. Where is everything? Why am I so messy? When you put clothes away you never think that you’ll have to take them all out again. Right. Suitcase….now where is my suitcase? I suppose bin bags are the traditional method of Moving Out but they are not so easy to carry.6

I go back to the kitchen- she’s still sitting there, motionless, hands full of mug- and come back with a huge roll of bin liners. I begin to stuff everything in, not caring about folding or getting my clothes creased: shirts, trousers, ties, jackets (office uniform) jeans, sweatshirts, shorts, t-shirts (the ones she bought me? The one she used to wear in bed? It still smells of her. Her hair clings to the back. I can’t just leave them…) Underwear. I seem to have a surprising amount of clothes…did I buy all this?7

What next? Shaving stuff, tooth past, tooth brush…tooth brush. We shared an electric, had separate heads…I’ll buy a new one. I take the head anyway. Hmmm CDs….but which are hers? I take the obvious ones- the chanting monks and world music I know she hates- as well as my old Smiths LPs. I leave the rest sliding against each other in the dramatically emptier rack.  What about the TV. Damn, how do we spit up big things? Bed, sofa, cushions, standard lamps, fridge. Leave it. Make a fresh start. Start all over again. Where will I go? Cheap hotel room? B ‘n’ B? I’ll have to find myself a flat. Must buy newspaper. Speak to estate agent. Fine. Finished.8

One by one I heave the straining bin liners to the front door. I look back into the kitchen. She’s still sitting there with that damn mug. A streetlight outside glows orange through her hair, turning it into a halo. God, she’s beautiful.9

“Right, I’m off.”10

“Fine.”11

I get my coat, fumble for the latch and h…e...a...v…e the door open. Before I shut it behind me I turn, bitterness filling my mouth with awful words:12

“And for God’s sake, put that fucking mug down!”13

T14

he last thing I hear is a thud on the closed door and a clatter of broken crockery.15

I don’t hear any more after that. I’m out in the dark. There’s a wet smell in the air: damp leaves, rain, puddles on the street. Tears. The sky is thick and heavy. No stars tonight, no treacherous moon. Nothing but me and the wind and the madness of the night. I get in the car and drive.16

I watch her. She’s sitting beside the lake-more of a pond really- throwing bread to the listless ducks. I can see her wrist-it’s too thin, she needs to eat more- bend and flick as she tosses chunk after chunk into the still water. The ducks eye the bread wearily, make a few half-hearted dives and then go back to staring blankly at each other. 17

It's summer. Impossibly hot, windless with whiplash, blistering heat and a perpetual sticky-ness. The sun sings in an achingly blue sky, gleefully burning skin and bleaching hair. Hers is now so blonde it’s almost white. My own stays resolutely dark.18

She stands up now, her skirt swinging around her knees, and brushes herself down. Strands of grass cling to her back and I long to peel them off one by one. But I don’t move. I stay in the shade and watch.19

I am lying on my front and watching her. The cool grass tickles my patches of bare skin and I imagine it is her hair. I can feel the cold earth compacted underneath my front and imagine I can detect the worms digging underground. I idly wonder if they could cause mini earthquakes and fancy I feel a tremor under my leg. Her head jolts up as if she felt it to and stands very still as if listening to something. Or for something. She starts to move off, slowly picking her way around the lake, the long grass swooshing against her bare legs. I can almost feel the blades brushing against my own skin. Her feet are bare. From one brown hand two sandals swing, from the other a straw bag bangs against her shins as she walks.20

She stops. She glances back over her shoulder, a frown briefly flitting over her face. I look away and pretend to be checking the time although I’m not wearing a watch. I notice my skin is getting darker; freckles are beginning to appear. I smooth the warm skin with one coarse thumb- I wish it were hers- and feel the black, springy hairs that grow there. 21

Out of the corner of my eye I see a white figure moving away over the grass. The glare is shining straight into my eyes and for one insane moment I think it is her bright hair that is blinding me. I get up quickly and move out of the shade into the sunlight. I begin to meander my way in her vague direction, being careful not to let her see me, taking my time, feeling the sun warming my skin through my clothes.22

After a while I start to sweat- I should have worn shorts- and consider rolling up my trousers- bad move, makes you look middle aged- but content myself with removing my shirt. I’ve been working out, there’s only a slight hint of paunch around the stomach.23

I can see her clearly now. She has stopped walking but is standing still and looking out across the lake. My heart stops. The water is so still that her figure is reflected in it as if it were a mirror. The sandals lie at her feet, as does the bag. One hand rests on the mound of her hip; the other shades her eyes from the sun. Her hair is coming unravelled now- strands of bright hair spring up from the top of her head and curl deliciously down the nape of her neck. She reaches up, catches one particularly long strand and deftly pins it back, her brown wrist stark against her white-blonde hair. She should be wearing a hat.24

I should move away, I’m too exposed here. If she turns around, she’ll see me standing here, watching her. But I can’t move. I can’t stop watching her. The white figure on the pure green grass- well, more of a faded yellow- looking out across the clear lake- well, more of a murky pond- with the sun dancing in the sky above her.25