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Authors: Steve Mosby
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she said quietly, 'and I don't understand why you don't.'
I touched the lip of my mug.
'That's all.' Her voice had reduced itself to a pained, embarrassed whisper. 'I'm sorry. I didn't want to be like this. I just love you.'
I closed my eyes.
'Rachel - '
'I know. I know.'
'I wish there was something I could say.'
'There is. You're just not going to.'
So I let her compose herself instead. After a moment, she said, 'I just don't understand.'
'I know.'
'But anyway. That's life, isn't it.' She shook herself a little, suddenly under control again. She'd always been good at that. 'I've said that I want your stuff out.'
'Yes.'
'But that doesn't mean I don't still want you.'
I looked at her. The hard ferocity in her face was totally at odds with what she'd just said. And she didn't still want me - how could she? If anything, she wanted things as they used to be - she wanted to be able to unwind the last four months, take them back and play everything differently. She wanted the me that had existed in the years up until that moment I'd told her I wasn't in love with her anymore. This me, she hated.
There are some things you do that you can't take back - like killing a man, or telling someone you don't love them anymore. A relationship is like a branch that's grown thick and strong over time. You can't have your partner snap that in half, and then just lay the two pieces next to each other and expect them to be whole again. However much glue you use, the original thing is always gone for ever.
She said, 'Will you do me a favour?'
'If I can.'
'It's not difficult.'
I didn't say anything.
'If you change your mind, you've got to let me know.'
I didn't say anything.
'Even if I'm married with kids. Well, no, maybe not if I have kids. But if I'm married, or with someone else, then you have to let me know.'
'Okay.'
'Because you're the love of my life. I want to make you happy.'
I closed my eyes again.
The worst thing was that I could imagine her planning this.
That's what you do when you're hurt and want to change something. I would have bet money that she'd lain awake and run this scenario through her head, thinking very carefully about what she needed to say to convince me. And in her mind it would have worked. She would have settled on a script of exactly the right words.
I could imagine this, because I'd done it myself for Lucy.
Rachel said, 'And I always want to be with you. And I always will want to.'
With Lucy, when the hurt got too much, I'd write her an email.
And I'd work on this fucking thing for hours. When I'd finished, it would say everything I wanted to say. It would, in fact, be as eloquent and convincing a piece of personal propaganda as had ever been committed to paper. But even as I was writing, I'd know that it wasn't really about persuading her to be with me. It was more about the fantasy of it: putting reality out of my head for an evening and imagining that things might be different. I'd let myself believe that she would read it, realise how deeply I loved her and want to be with me. Stupid, because if that was ever going to happen then it wouldn't matter what I wrote, but stupidity wasn't the point - it was always the solitary writing that was important: the act of imagination that twisted a few painful hours and made me feel less lonely. Then I'd press send mail and wish that I hadn't.
The letter was gone then, and I'd realise how imperfect it had been.
Days without a reply would follow, and I'd feel ashamed of myself and vow never to do it again.
'Okay,' I said to Rachel. 'I promise.'
I imagined her going home from the coffee shop and wondering which words she should have used instead - what the real magic ones had been. And then she'd come up with new ones, definitely magic this time, and want to see me again. She'd done this before.
And I still wrote emails to Lucy.
'I'm sorry.' Rachel's chair scraped, and I opened my eyes. 'I've got to go.'
'Rachel--'
'No. I don't want to see
I touched the lip of my mug.
'That's all.' Her voice had reduced itself to a pained, embarrassed whisper. 'I'm sorry. I didn't want to be like this. I just love you.'
I closed my eyes.
'Rachel - '
'I know. I know.'
'I wish there was something I could say.'
'There is. You're just not going to.'
So I let her compose herself instead. After a moment, she said, 'I just don't understand.'
'I know.'
'But anyway. That's life, isn't it.' She shook herself a little, suddenly under control again. She'd always been good at that. 'I've said that I want your stuff out.'
'Yes.'
'But that doesn't mean I don't still want you.'
I looked at her. The hard ferocity in her face was totally at odds with what she'd just said. And she didn't still want me - how could she? If anything, she wanted things as they used to be - she wanted to be able to unwind the last four months, take them back and play everything differently. She wanted the me that had existed in the years up until that moment I'd told her I wasn't in love with her anymore. This me, she hated.
There are some things you do that you can't take back - like killing a man, or telling someone you don't love them anymore. A relationship is like a branch that's grown thick and strong over time. You can't have your partner snap that in half, and then just lay the two pieces next to each other and expect them to be whole again. However much glue you use, the original thing is always gone for ever.
She said, 'Will you do me a favour?'
'If I can.'
'It's not difficult.'
I didn't say anything.
'If you change your mind, you've got to let me know.'
I didn't say anything.
'Even if I'm married with kids. Well, no, maybe not if I have kids. But if I'm married, or with someone else, then you have to let me know.'
'Okay.'
'Because you're the love of my life. I want to make you happy.'
I closed my eyes again.
The worst thing was that I could imagine her planning this.
That's what you do when you're hurt and want to change something. I would have bet money that she'd lain awake and run this scenario through her head, thinking very carefully about what she needed to say to convince me. And in her mind it would have worked. She would have settled on a script of exactly the right words.
I could imagine this, because I'd done it myself for Lucy.
Rachel said, 'And I always want to be with you. And I always will want to.'
With Lucy, when the hurt got too much, I'd write her an email.
And I'd work on this fucking thing for hours. When I'd finished, it would say everything I wanted to say. It would, in fact, be as eloquent and convincing a piece of personal propaganda as had ever been committed to paper. But even as I was writing, I'd know that it wasn't really about persuading her to be with me. It was more about the fantasy of it: putting reality out of my head for an evening and imagining that things might be different. I'd let myself believe that she would read it, realise how deeply I loved her and want to be with me. Stupid, because if that was ever going to happen then it wouldn't matter what I wrote, but stupidity wasn't the point - it was always the solitary writing that was important: the act of imagination that twisted a few painful hours and made me feel less lonely. Then I'd press send mail and wish that I hadn't.
The letter was gone then, and I'd realise how imperfect it had been.
Days without a reply would follow, and I'd feel ashamed of myself and vow never to do it again.
'Okay,' I said to Rachel. 'I promise.'
I imagined her going home from the coffee shop and wondering which words she should have used instead - what the real magic ones had been. And then she'd come up with new ones, definitely magic this time, and want to see me again. She'd done this before.
And I still wrote emails to Lucy.
'I'm sorry.' Rachel's chair scraped, and I opened my eyes. 'I've got to go.'
'Rachel--'
'No. I don't want to see
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