Wednesday, March 18

The Dawn With Sleepless Eyes

MAYBE WHEN THIS has sunk in, then I will recall it in detail, pages long, unbroken and raw, uncompromising in specifics. At the moment, my mind – tender though it is and impressionable – is unable to grasp it.
We are no longer together.
They are five words and I wrote them down all by myself.
On Sunday evening she ended our relationship, with tears down her face, as I tried to understand the words that she sobbed. I did not weep but I removed my hand from her because I did not know what she was saying, but then I understood and they were words I had heard before, though not in that order or in that voice. Her voice is soft and accented. Tears fell a long way down to land on her clothes.
It is everyone’s right to make a point with words and I suspected that she was making a point; slowly she was not making a point, until she was finally breaking up with me. A sharp pain in the jaw that runs up to the cheeks.
I stood up suddenly—‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ I poured us both a glass of wine.
A talk had been on the cards, yes, and at my (surviving) grandmother’s I made notes of the things I wished to talk about. Overall, I was optimistic; I thought that things could, and would, get better. Though it has been bad for over seven months, I was sure it would get better – so I sat there for her delivery.
She—‘Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?’
Me—‘No. Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?’
She—‘No. I love you.’
Me—‘I love you.’
She told me I was the love of her life. That made no sense to me. The clock swung its tail. Yes, she loved me deeply, she assured me of that. I suppose things are not as simple as that. What will my life be like without her? because I could not imagine it. My meagre imagination need not struggle. She always looked different after a weekend apart.
In bed she curled up close to me and I to her. We stayed awake for a long time. The evening was all around us, together, wrapping its cool dark about the bed.
The following night I met my parents for dinner and did not see her until she was asleep in bed beside me, moaning softly in the wisps of some nightmare.
When I arrived home the next night I did not know how she wished to be greeted – our usual kiss? But, no, an outstanding kiss. Where had those kisses been hiding before? Her tears wetted my shoulder. We drank a bottle of wine and talked. She laughed her superlative laugh. I missed that laugh. I miss that laugh. It has not sunk in. At turns, I was overwhelmed by sickness and anger, then happiness and arousal. My groin ached. I did not wish to eat. She lay down beside me and watched me masturbate and then we watched the come glow in the hallway light.
‘Wake me up when you get into bed.’
I did not wake her up.
There is an encyclopaedia of feelings that I cannot pen, not for anybody nor myself. A tough week. It is solely my duty to keep up.
Her cat smacks me on the nose in the morning until I awake. She mews, then I open up the duvet for her to crawl under; her dark eyes glint in the black. All day I walk around in a daze. Times come when I am crippled, others when I am hopeful and life shines before me as I always wanted it to. She has, if anything, made me a better person. That is that.
I pause on the threshold of our flat…
She is putting the key into the lock. I am close to whisking her off of her feet and carrying her across the threshold because it seems appropriate but at the same time I am smitten by how ridiculous it might be, so I don’t. We walk into our new flat, proud tenants, summer dazzling behind the blinds, and the smell of it clean and new, the fresh paint, the excitement. She dances before me.
I walk in. She stares at me.
‘You seem all right,’ she says.
‘I have my moments.’ The memories come at me. That is all one is left with, in the end, when things wilt, as they are always cause to do. There is no protection from the memories, if you wish to put it that way; I don’t.

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