these mist-covered mountains

I can smell her. It's all over your clothes. I think it's the one I used to wear, the one you used to like before all this began. 

 

We sit there watching TV. Your finger flicks the channels as if you're on your own, finally coming to rest on football highlights, but taking the long way round to get there. Maybe you feel it’s more acceptable that way.

 

You warned me about the sport on your dating profile page years ago. But for the first few months you didn't need it, drugged up as you were with my infatuation. I managed to wean you off it with tight methadone skirts - your hard dick your only symptom of withdrawal.

 

Now I pass you the beer you asked for, watch your addiction return, your eyes light up when your team is on, a half smile when they score. Flickers of something I once remember. You tell me the first goal was a corker, the second a fluke, but that it could have gone either way in the second half. Sipping tea standing beside you, I try to say something useful, try to keep your emotion visible, but it's like I am trying to fly kites on a windless day. But I still offer you post match refreshments upstairs and you agree by rocking your beer can in my direction and saying that you won't be long. For a brief second I think I see your eyes on mine. 

 

I hardly hear you come up the stairs an hour later, you all tiptoeing and me waiting there in a new silk nightie, determined to see this through, just reading the same magazine article for the third time, my thoughts fixed on testing you further. 

 

"Still up?" you ask. Your face not reflecting a man that had just watched his football team win for the second time that day.

 

Good job I don't need an erection for this, I think to myself, still rereading. 

 

Ten minutes later you roll off of me, unfinished. Your corner threw the towel in before you even got off your stool. I then listen to you complain about the busy week at work, the late nights with colleagues; never enough time, never enough hours in the day. We both turn away from each other at the same time - back to back is our only symmetry. And my mind drifts then, gets caught up: the recent past, the early years; the time I was centre stage, the leading lady; when you hung off every line I said, every detail, until night had pinned us inseparably to karma sutra's back catalogue by candlelight.

 

But now I lie here listening to you rattle off an old familiar snore, probably dreaming of your 20s or 30s again, dreaming of the children I couldn't give you. I listen to you until your alarm makes me realise that sleep was possible, no matter how brief. 

 

Breakfast. Your favourite meal you say, 'because it's the easiest to make.' And as you shovel toast in your mouth in order to free your hands to do up your tie, I can see why. You chase it with coffee, kiss my head and leave, reminding me that you may be home late, that I ought to go ahead and eat without you, leaving me here alone to scroll Facebook: the place people go when they're happy with the world; or pretending to be. I scroll through notifications of people I don't know, and then there are the ones I do. Photos of food in restaurants, kids' birthdays and engagements - I'm not sure if I am making the photos appear empty or they actually are. But then I see you with her. She looks so pretty, so young, and your arm is draped about her. We have a photo just the same, a holiday in Crete I remember, although her tan is more golden, whereas my Irish skin looks as red as a raspberry. You look at her out of the corner of your eyes.

 

You text later that day to confirm you'll not be home for dinner, just while I'm being dressed down by my boss for failing to meet a target by 1 per cent. As if I really care. The dinner for one, I mean. So Tesco it is, Thursday evening: a bottle of Chianti, a bar of chocolate, and a microwave lasagne. In fact, I needn't have bothered with the lasagne; and by the time I arrive home it's getting dark. I open the patio doors onto the garden and sit there listening to nature unfold: birds still carrying bedding for nests; the brightest stars emerging.

 

You startle me by banging the door shut, your heavy footsteps on wooden floors, your keys landing on a table; the artificial light. You don't see me at first, thinking I'm in bed asleep. But I'm hidden, hunkering down in a large backed chair, listening to you messaging, hearing you sniffing out loudly in some amusing response to someone and then laughing out loud. More tapping…More…I wonder how long I can go unnoticed.

 

"Joyce," you say, "I didn't know you were there." I have been peering around the side of the chair as I haven't heard much for a minute or two, but you suddenly catch my eye, mid-swig of a glass of my wine. I am genuinely disappointed you've seen me, like a child being caught playing hide and seek on his birthday. But when you’re in the loo, I grab your phone. It was the least you could give me. 

 

Texts:

Sophie

Sophie

Sophie

Sophie

Sophie

Sophie

Me

Sophie

Sophie

 

Calls: 

Sophie 

Sophie

 

I hear you flush sooner than I expect, only managing to see the last text from her. It reads: “x"

 

"What time did you get back?" You ask, as I stand leaning heavily on the sink.

 

"Dunno. It was getting dark about eight ." You then nod, drink more wine, and loosen your collar a little. You approach and tap your palm on my shoulder. But you don't linger. More like a goodnight rather than a hello. Like you have always done...like you've done since treatment began…”I can't do another round of treatment," you had recently said, as if it was you that had all your hormones go through the ringer, have your stomach become a pin cushion, been prodded and poked by strangers. All you had to do was watch porn on your phone and direct yourself into a pot already labelled. How the other half lived! And the worst was still to come. The wait. The wait. The pregnancy test wait: the one that was categoric negative; the one that was uncertain; the one that was positive; and all the other ones besides. But it was me that needed the counselling wasn't it, because I showed it, hung it out, whereas you went quiet, silent, made me look like the only victim. Until that is I couldn't find you where I used to find you, doing and saying what you used to say and do so effortlessly, because your hope had always been a different colour to mine: less certain, less real. 

 

When I get to the bedroom, you aren't asleep, but sitting up in bed on your phone again. Is it Sophie again? I want to ask, but am hampered by the lack of movement from my mouth. 

 

"Sorry. Just work." You reply, seemingly reading my mind. 

 

"How was it tonight?" I ask, fishing for an answer beyond one or two syllables.

 

"Yeah, good. You?" 

 

I concentrate on my lips to make sure they follow me this time, give them a dummy run to loosen them up, to nudge to life, then ask: "Michael...Who's Sophie?" 

 

You look at me briefly, then into the distance. I can hear the clock ticking from the kitchen below through the paper-thin floor. I make up some cock and bull story at this time about hearing you call out her name in your dreams last week and last night.

 

"Ohh, Sophie! " you say. "She's the new girl on my team, moved from finance to sales. A quick learner, but sure needs loads of help." You frown, causing deep folds which almost knit your eyebrows together. 

 

I don’t have the strength to press you for more details, just want to hang it out there, make you aware I know, but it leaves me wondering what kind of help she might require, being the vulnerable type and all. 

 

I climb next to you. You reach out and touch my hand. I recoil at first, as if you're just a desperate first time date and I'm trying to let you down gently. We say nothing, just listen at time passing us by, still unable to wriggle free of its hardening shell. I can hear your breath evening out when I lightly touch your hand back. 

 

We help each other pull the duvet up; our fingers still entwined. I turn over before you. My mind is fully awake now, and I know that sleep is beyond me once again. I wonder if we'll be brave enough to sift through the pieces together and recognise them as our own, whether we can find that photo from Crete and nail it to our world, something to remind us, to guide us, towards a time when our futures appeared wide open, more simple, and everything was possible.