infidelity as you get ready all stumbly and distracted, and the shower’s too hard and too hot and you force your body into stillness with the slow warm ooze of red wine and then you close your eyes to some music, the Jeff Buckley CD Cole can’t stand, she tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your hair and from your lips she drew the hallelujah, and you smile at the gathering wet, the expectation.
You walk tall out the door, alive, greedy, knowing. Possibility is wide open before you, as vast as a lake and you want to plunge in, dive deep.
No underpants.
the cold plunge: nothing can be more invigorating and delightful to a robust girl
He’s already seated and you feel a tremor deep inside you at the sight of him, you’re aching with tenderness as he sits in the café, across the street. He looks up and blooms a grin; your heart is filled up.
You run across to that greasy cafe with its beans on toast and stewed tea that’s never hot enough, to where it all began eight months ago with a water splash. The letters are in your handbag and you’re bold now, sure, and so thoroughly sick of all the uncertainty and tension, the games, the teasing, the waiting. You need to get this said, there are two red patches on your cheeks and you ask him straight out: why do we go on like this, we could, you know, just get a hotel room, or perhaps go back to your flat, or, I don’t know, and you stop, you smile, so confident of his response.
His face.
Pardon, he asks.
His bewilderment.
Um, you hear yourself laughing, off-key, too much, OK, I’m sorry, and your face is stinging with embarrassment. But the letters you begin to say and then you stop and you snap: it doesn’t matter. You excuse yourself, you have to go, you have to get out. You grab your bag, it’s caught round the chair leg and you stumble out and walk down the street, bashing into shoulders and almost walking into posts and wait…wait…you hear behind you, but you don’t turn back and at last there’s the mouth of the tube station in which to disappear, to sink.
What have you done, what have you done?
Your head is in your hands on the tube hurtling home, knuckling your temples, trying to press it all out.
Fool, fool.
To think you knew him.
never remain in wet clothes or boots
There’s a light from under your front door. Your face is rearranged. Cole’s cooked dinner, it’s a mess, the water that was steaming the vegetables has boiled dry and the apartment’s filled with the sour smell of a saucepan caked black. But he’s tried.
A tight smile.
You haven’t been writing me any letters, have you, the jittery blurt.
Letters, no. Why would I do that? What letters?
Oh nothing, nothing. I got a couple of letters. They were a bit strange. It might be this kid down the street.
What’s going on? Is someone harassing you? Should we call the police?
God no, forget it. It’s silly, harmless. What’s to eat?
There’s a Pandora’s box of questions flying open in Cole’s head, it is all in his face. You excuse yourself, can’t force food down, feel sick. You’ve blundered from Gabriel, he’s slipped from your life.
Fool, fool.
Is there something you want to tell me? Cole’s voice is at the locked bathroom door.
No, no, forget it.
Let me see the letters. Who is this kid? There’s concern in his voice, he will not let up.
I lent him some money for the bus and he’s been on at me ever since. It’s nothing, really, I can handle it. You manage a laugh. It’s OK. All right? Your fingers twist your hair until it hurts.
OK, OK. A pause. Want a cuppa?
You wilt, you slam your eyes shut, you smile with your lips pressed tight.
Yes. Yes, thanks; your voice all choked. And then in the gap under the bathroom door a slim bar of Lindt chocolate appears. You can hardly voice your thank you. For at moments like these the charge in your marriage is suddenly, beautifully, back.
You succumb.
sweeping and dusting
But not for long.
For the next day there’s no call from Gabriel, or the next. Through late winter and early spring there’s no contact, just an answering machine to receive your carefully rehearsed messages and he never returns your calls. The wind of agitation blows through all your nights, blowing away sleep until you fall, finally, into fitful technicolor dreams at dawn. Involving him, more often than not. He’s wended his way into every corner of your life, he’s a plasterer’s fine residue, dust under a bed, a white film on a shower screen that keeps coming back and back no matter how furiously you wipe. You will him to surprise you, knowing in your heart he won’t.
Just to hear his voice, so you can have your strength back.
You never imagined you had the capacity for such annihilation, never dreamt you could be reduced to something like this. The days stretch on, and the silence in the flat, and your nails are gnawed to the ragged quick and you draw blood chewing on your inner lips. You replay his bewilderment over and over in your head and exclaim out loud at the horror of it. It’s like when your faculty boss years ago told you that his wife had just had a baby and how sad you’d replied, God knows why, how sad, and your strange, stupid words have haunted you ever since.
Why won’t he call, to put your mind at rest? Did he never want to fuck you? Did he just want a friendship, do heterosexual male friends ever just want that? Was he stricken with embarrassment? Did he find himself falling for you and think it could never work? Your Elizabethan author’s no help, she just ignites more questions, more doubt:
Witness the man who loved a woman so wretchedly and dishonestly that he could not be at rest until he defiled her; he forced her to lie with him, and afterwards, to make up the measure of his wickedness, he hated her more than he loved her before.
Is it easier to just disappear?
The questions, the questions and the wind blows through all your nights, rattling the panes and whining to be let in. You toss and turn, as if you’re vomiting sleep.
