The Present

The Present

Imprecise words spill across the table. Waterfall. Falling, spitting up, hitting my knees. Forming puddles around my shoes.

Words. Stutters. Your eyelid is twitching. 

It happened one time. You were in the kitchen, missing my kisses. Where is this going? You’re talking too fast. 

I dig my nails in my knuckles to focus, watch your eyes. Darting left, up, right, down. Am I moving? The chair is cold. I’m right here. 

Look at me.

Darling, don’t rewrite history. 

I’ve never had to demonise anyone before, this is interesting.

Waving your arms about trying to catch a sufficient excuse when you knock the sugar over. White like snow.

Snow. That reminds me of three Christmases before. Stale memories creep into my mind when I prefer to steep in melancholy and escape the present. 

Gold wrapping paper. A red paisley scarf and matching gloves. A teapot. I don't even drink tea. You never wore them; said they’d look better on someone wearing pigtails or a tampon. Sweet. I hadn’t seen them near you for days. Not until your office party. What was her name? Something exotic? Well, she didn’t have pigtails. I complimented her, you didn’t notice, too focussed on hailing a cab. 

Denial can be warm and fluffy like a duck feather duvet. Just curl up and close your eyes.

Eyes. Like a deer in the headlights. 

Don’t make a scene. The waitress is just trying to help. You never respect cafe staff. 

I stand up, chair legs scraping against the floorboards.

Excuse me for just a minute while I powder my nose with cyanide. 

I’m kidding, Harry. 

The door shuts behind me and the click releases relief in my chest. This is tiring. I had been hoping to talk about planning a trip to my parents or… no, never mind. 

I grab a piece of toilet roll and fold it neatly into a square, hiding it in my handbag for later.

Prickles on the back of my neck start up again. I know what this means, so I roll the hairband off my wrist and scrape my hair back into a ponytail. I push my sleeves up my forearms and take a kneeling position over the toilet bowl. 

I’ve got nothing left to give when an urgent knock on the door pulls me back to the chaos outside. Flush. Wash my hands. Mouth. I let my hair fall back down around my shoulders and give myself one last look. What for?

When I open the door a young man stands there. Not Harry. 

He gurgles his words and I think, great, another man who can’t formulate a whole sentence. 

I take the bill, check the numbers and give him a note in return. He apologises, I nod, it’s all very polite. 

I scan the room, avoiding eye contact with anyone and decide Harry’s left us.