fine. I would have known that what I had with Rachel was as good as it gets, rather than having the dumb idea that it was just as good as it gets for me. But I didn't. And so when Lucy came along she shifted me, moved me, and everything that was sealed away inside began to rip.
About twenty minutes later, I was considering ordering another drink - weighing the caffeine jolt against the time and irritation necessary to obtain it - when Rachel walked in through the door and made the decision for me.
I gave her an awkward smile, looked away quickly, and then stood up and made my way over to the counter simply to give my body something to do.
'Another cappuccino.'
She joined me.
'Make it two,' she said. 'Hi.'
'Hi.'
In preparation for the meeting, she was wearing war clothes: things I hadn't seen before, very obviously bought in the time since I'd left. A smart black coat, down to her thighs. A dark blue crop top. Short black skirt. Boots. I'd never seen her wearing anything like it. Change and experimentation are good, of course - but there are subtle gestures that reveal quiet confidence, and then there are gestures so dripping with overt meaning that they flip over and become the opposite. This seemed in danger of being one of those.
'You look nice,' I said.
'Thanks.'
I didn't know exactly what she meant by her response, but that was nothing new: everything we'd said to each other since the split had been subject to intense coding, both real and imagined.
Conversations could suddenly veer off on dangerous tangents that neither of us had seen coming. Thanks, I know. Thanks for noticing. Thanks a lot.
I took my seat and she sat down opposite me.
'I didn't know you liked cappuccino,' I said, when the waiter finally brought our coffees.
She shook a packet of sugar, tore it and poured a hiss of it into her drink. It rested on the surface, and then began to sink into the foam.
'There's a lot about me you don't know.'
'Probably.'
She stirred the coffee and then took a sip.
'Thanks for taking time out from your busy schedule,' she said. 'I appreciate it.'
'No problem.'
'I want to talk about things.'
'What things?'
'The house, I suppose. Us.'
And then her resolve went - just like that. That one word kicked the legs out from under her, and her face crumpled like tissue.
Without thinking, I reached out to touch her arm.
'Don't.' She almost flinched away. 'Don't fucking touch me, please.'
'Okay.' I drew back. 'I'm sorry.'
'You should be.'
She took a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose. Then she swallowed back all the questions and accusations that were swarming to come out and returned to the script.
'I want the rest of your things out.'
'Okay.'
'I need you to get rid of them. Everywhere I look I see you. It's driving me insane.'
'Okay. I understand.'
'No you don't. You have no idea.'
The rest of the coffee shop receded from my consciousness faded out to white as I concentrated on her. My skin was crawling at being the focus of so much awful emotion.
I'd been back to the house once since I'd left, when I was sure that she wouldn't be there. I'd needed a couple of disks that I'd forgotten the first time. Walking into the kitchen, I'd been shocked - I literally stopped in my tracks. Nothing was clean. There were empty packets everywhere. Empty bottles. The front room was a real mess: papers all over the floor, plates and old cups resting in piles and short towers, more bottles and glasses. The air had been grey and the house had seemed unwell, as though it was dying of some wasting disease. I'd wanted to do something to clean it up, but knew that there was nowhere to start and no point anyway. I got the disks and left, and I went home and cried for hours.
The hatred in her voice disappeared slightly.
'I love you so much.'
I just sat there and looked at the table. That was the way it had to be: just put my head down and get through it. One word in front of another.
'I just want you to love me,'
About twenty minutes later, I was considering ordering another drink - weighing the caffeine jolt against the time and irritation necessary to obtain it - when Rachel walked in through the door and made the decision for me.
I gave her an awkward smile, looked away quickly, and then stood up and made my way over to the counter simply to give my body something to do.
'Another cappuccino.'
She joined me.
'Make it two,' she said. 'Hi.'
'Hi.'
In preparation for the meeting, she was wearing war clothes: things I hadn't seen before, very obviously bought in the time since I'd left. A smart black coat, down to her thighs. A dark blue crop top. Short black skirt. Boots. I'd never seen her wearing anything like it. Change and experimentation are good, of course - but there are subtle gestures that reveal quiet confidence, and then there are gestures so dripping with overt meaning that they flip over and become the opposite. This seemed in danger of being one of those.
'You look nice,' I said.
'Thanks.'
I didn't know exactly what she meant by her response, but that was nothing new: everything we'd said to each other since the split had been subject to intense coding, both real and imagined.
Conversations could suddenly veer off on dangerous tangents that neither of us had seen coming. Thanks, I know. Thanks for noticing. Thanks a lot.
I took my seat and she sat down opposite me.
'I didn't know you liked cappuccino,' I said, when the waiter finally brought our coffees.
She shook a packet of sugar, tore it and poured a hiss of it into her drink. It rested on the surface, and then began to sink into the foam.
'There's a lot about me you don't know.'
'Probably.'
She stirred the coffee and then took a sip.
'Thanks for taking time out from your busy schedule,' she said. 'I appreciate it.'
'No problem.'
'I want to talk about things.'
'What things?'
'The house, I suppose. Us.'
And then her resolve went - just like that. That one word kicked the legs out from under her, and her face crumpled like tissue.
Without thinking, I reached out to touch her arm.
'Don't.' She almost flinched away. 'Don't fucking touch me, please.'
'Okay.' I drew back. 'I'm sorry.'
'You should be.'
She took a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose. Then she swallowed back all the questions and accusations that were swarming to come out and returned to the script.
'I want the rest of your things out.'
'Okay.'
'I need you to get rid of them. Everywhere I look I see you. It's driving me insane.'
'Okay. I understand.'
'No you don't. You have no idea.'
The rest of the coffee shop receded from my consciousness faded out to white as I concentrated on her. My skin was crawling at being the focus of so much awful emotion.
I'd been back to the house once since I'd left, when I was sure that she wouldn't be there. I'd needed a couple of disks that I'd forgotten the first time. Walking into the kitchen, I'd been shocked - I literally stopped in my tracks. Nothing was clean. There were empty packets everywhere. Empty bottles. The front room was a real mess: papers all over the floor, plates and old cups resting in piles and short towers, more bottles and glasses. The air had been grey and the house had seemed unwell, as though it was dying of some wasting disease. I'd wanted to do something to clean it up, but knew that there was nowhere to start and no point anyway. I got the disks and left, and I went home and cried for hours.
The hatred in her voice disappeared slightly.
'I love you so much.'
I just sat there and looked at the table. That was the way it had to be: just put my head down and get through it. One word in front of another.
'I just want you to love me,'
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