Leaving ...Behind. (Edited).

‘I did used to love you in the beginning, ‘ she says in a conversational sort of way, like the way she once used to talk to him about things that meant little to them both. She has a special voice for small-talk, he thinks, as he watches her using the fruit press, squeezing out fresh juice, an acidic vice.
She pours out a glass for herself, knowing he prefers strong coffee in the morning.
‘Want any toast?’ she asks and he shrugs, ‘no.’
Inwardly he wants to rant and rage. Sweep the breakfast things off the pine table, but he’s too fucking screwed up to do that one act of rebellion. She has trained him well.
God, but she’s ugly when she scowls, waiting for what? An answer to her remark?
No, he won’t play this game. Let her pack her things and leave him. He doesn’t care anymore.
‘I was talking to you, Ricky,’ she says, ‘the least you can do is answer me.’
Shit! He hates being called Ricky, it’s dwindling him down to his boyhood days. Richard or even Rick, but not Dick or Ricky.
‘Stop sulking, you know it won’t work on Me.’ her lips curl in that sneer he once thought was provocative. Now he knows better.
Lifting the mug of coffee to his lips he burns his mouth, for a moment that pain over-rides the other. It’s made his eyes water and she fixes on that.
The chair creaks where the loose leg is propped up by a beer mat. He never said he was any good at DIY. It makes her body angle awkwardly to one side, something that makes her more human for a moment. Her arm stretches out and pats the hand he keeps on the table.
‘Please Ricky, don’t cry, it’s my fault.’ Now she’s trying for the bloody Oscar performance, he thinks. Childishly he pushes her away… it’s a small gesture and futile.
‘If you want it this way then let’s forget the friendly bit,’ that makes him feel a bit less emasculated. Now comes the drama queen, he’s seen this all before. The breathing in…the whoop sound before she heaves and spills her venom. Screwed-up face and breath of spite.
The blue eyes fill with tears and she makes a little hiccupping sound, not quite a proper cry, but a little bit of weakness. He’s not fooled.
Now she pushes her hair away from her face, the blonde tresses spilling from her fingers in that casual, come-to-bed look. Her skirt has risen up, showing a bit of leg and a glimpse of panties. Her sweater has a slightly plunging neckline that shows the swell of her breasts.
He’s had enough now. This is all too clichéd, as if they were playing to an audience. Now he’s ready to reply to her statement. One hand reaches forward and tangles in her hair.
‘Oh, you loved me, did you? When was that, before or after he chucked you out?’
His grip is tight and a shadow of fear flashes over her face for a moment and then is gone. He would never hurt her.

The kitchen is silent for a moment and then a plane roars overheard, breaking the moment. The kettle ticks, a cooling sound. From outside rain starts to patter down in tiny drops. He glances at the window and sees his reflection. A big man with gentle hands and what she once called a “lived-in-face.”
She slept next to that face for nearly five years and now she wants to sleep on her own until it’s time for her to leave. Ginger comes in from the cat flap and jumps up onto her lap. She brushes him off, the wet paws have left a mark on her office skirt. He picks the cat up and sinks his face into the wet fur, as once he sunk his face into a different kind of fur. The comparison is vulgar, but it makes him laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ she’s uncertain.
‘I used to love you too,’ he says.
‘You still do, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not. You taught me a thing or two.’ Like spinning on his finger, he thinks, but cannot say.
She picks up her handbag, it’s time to leave for work. Her heels click on the pine floor. The keys are in the kitchen door…he has his own set.
She pauses for a moment. ‘Shall I bring home a takeaway meal?’ as if nothing had happened since he found out she had been cheating on him for years.
‘Whatever,’ he can’t answer…can’t sum up the courage to kick her out.
‘I’ll see you later then?’ a question or a statement?
He watches her leave. Slim body, well-dressed, the trench coat covering her shapely legs. The door bangs shut. The February wind and rain is like a kicked dog.
Now all the things he wanted to say come back to him. The swear words he never used as he thought her a lady.
‘Cunt, whore, bastard bitch….over and over until his throat runs dry and the liqueur cabinet breached. Vodka mixed with cider, whiskey with ice and on his hands and knees crawling amongst broken glass where his anger endangered only himself.
Racking sobs…empty glasses and pain too great to call his own.
But he’s changed the locks and broke that image of the morning…captured briefly in a rain-swept window.

© Lisa Fuller. April 2007.