After the fight

Afterwards, you ask: ‘Are we OK?’

It’s the way that you ask, in that David Attenborough voice, watching the lion stalk the gazelle and enjoying the inevitable on some level, while trying not to betray yourself as you wait for my response.

No, we’re not OK. Because you’ve put on weight, I wanted to say, once. At the time you mentioned that you didn’t think I really made an effort anymore, because I liked to wear your boxers to bed, right before you tentatively prised them off.

I imagine that you want to ask me if there’s someone else. I would hesitate before answering, even though there isn’t. Really, there is at least one other man – the stranger who scowls into his newspaper on the tube and doesn’t look at anybody.

We’ve both witnessed friends and couples our age, teetering on forty, become overwhelmed by government sponsored adverts about Help to Buy schemes and tax credits for newborns. They’ve all run off into the night, smacking into things.

I consider stating just one, small truth, to regain my balance. We’re all right, but… I’m finding it harder to be with you, especially once the bill for our restaurant meal comes.

We are all right. But I fear that I feel as much for you as I will for anybody. That ‘thank God it’s Friday’ feeling at the end of a shitty week.

You pull me into a hug, catching me off guard. Now, I’m guilty of something else.