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We take our positions on opposite sides of the wooden table. "So. How are
you?"
She sips at her drink. She's bought new jewellery. "Good, Michael. Good."
Her hair's been coloured. She's achingly pretty. "You?"
Empty house, high rent, no company. She never could spot a lie. "Good."
"Good."
The beer garden congregation strengthens as twilight draws near. Two mating
flies drown in my glass. Silence, like pulling teeth.
To business. "I hear you're seeing someone." Two months on. She didn't hang
about.
She looks coy. "I'm living with him." No wonder.
"Yeah?" My stomach's in free-fall.
"Yeah." Wind sweeps her cigarette smoke into my face. "We've applied for
visas. We want to start again."
I'm not quite hearing this. "You've...?"
"Australia. Too much history here. We've booked tickets. Since my
promotion — did I tell you I got promoted? — we've been saving. November
fifth, we fly to Los Angeles. Then Auckland..."
She lists places, timings. She's stopped biting her nails. She's lost
weight. A new ring squats on her finger. Other tables bubble with
conversation and laughter.
"...for a while, and then we finish in Sydney." Her spark's returned. The
spark that captivated me, the spark I extinguished.
I can't believe she's lost weight.
"So, what about you?"
"Me?"
Me. Waking to junk mail reminders that she's gone. Sleeping within burgundy
walls, her colour of choice. I embrace her in the photograph hanging proud
on my Father's wall; the same picture snipes at me from my bedside table.
Even now, when out drinking with friends, I find her hair on my clothes.
That's when I picture them together the most.
And the bed. Four months in the finding. Norwegian wood. I still only sleep
on one side.
"Fine, Sarah. You know. Busy. Really busy." A chuckle that comes out as a
croak. "Busy, busy, busy."
I know that smile. Genuine. She's happy for me. Bitch.
"Great. Look, I'm glad we can do this. Thanks for asking."
"No problem."
One pause to sharpen the knife; one pause to twist it.
"Breaking up was the best thing, you know?"
I've swallowed the flies. I light a cigarette. "I suppose."
"Really. We weren't happy any more, were we?"
Not round-the-world-Australia-happy, no. "Suppose."
"All those arguments, the weekends of fighting — we should have done it
earlier. Thank you."
"For what?"
"For breaking it off."
She may as well thank me for losing a limb. Can I force a smile? No. "No
problem." I shrug.
"Keith's sweet. He said he didn't want to be the person to get me over you.
Honestly!"
Over me? Already? Snapping and crackling from behind next door's fence. A
bonfire of fallen leaves. Smoke swells; I shrink.
"Michael? Is everything okay?"
My gaze is fixed on the table. Is everything okay? Here's my chance to tell
her no, everything's fucked; I fucked it up; I won't do it again; I was so, so
stupid; we could be happy; try again? forgive me? Please?
Clouds smother the sun. The wind draws strength. Is it smoke that stings my
eyes?
"Yeah."
"Are you sure? You look sick."
Sick.
If she only knew.
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