a short story

His bedroom was a tiny, organised universe. I used to peer sullenly into the mirror where he moisturised his face and gargled mouthwash, the beard trimmings like confetti on the wooden surface of the table. Wondering at my reflection, tracing the pale alien staring back at me. I used to wonder where my innocence was located, which part of me had fled from my features and if others could tell that we'd mated again and again in the centre of the bed that was meticulously straightened at every opportunity.

The day after I felt strangely empty. He was the smell of hand balm, a fresh shower and latex and who was I? I waited in the rain outside for him and let my silly shoes fill up with water as I stared up at the sky. Counting minutes. He is not a kisser, or a holder. I am a spidermonkey, a limpet.

Which part of my genetics chose him, and him me? I thought Ava for a girl. I sat on that coach full of strangers and hugged my aching belly and prayed.

I loved him like a stray loves the owner that doesn't hit him. Through his monologues and disinterest, through the absences and the reluctance to be a part of my life. I loved his half-smiles, and I loved watching him stir his tea. The patterns of speech and laughs that are so individual and precious to each person and leave a gap when they have left you. He couldn't manage money but he knew how to manage me.

Loom, and surge. He said, 'I love you' but I pretended not to hear. I am less loud, less abrasive here.

He let me go and made me believe it was my idea.

Reviews

[Robin]

your words come into focus on little bubbles of thought drifting through my mind , reflecting and relating in a truly wonderful way

[Ed Hart]

how come everyone who reads this will know, exactly

[celyn]

wow.

[Emily B]

oh, oh

that's all