Onwards

The sauce had tasted thin. Too much water, too many ingredients. Not enough salt, not enough thought. But all was not lost. Nothing plenty of cheese, wine and sparkling conversation couldn’t mask.

Robert was already doing up the cuff on his freshly pressed baby blue shirt. He looked so serene (damn him) as he swept behind and placed a bristly kiss on my neck.

The warm scent of sandalwood emanated from him, leaving its comforting echo in my nostrils. 

“Looks great, sweetie,” he whispered, resting his chin on my right shoulder and peering into the bubbling pot of scarlet liquid. “They’ll love it.”

“You’re kind,” I replied, “but I don’t think it’ll match up to their seasoned palates.”

Before Robert could offer any further placations, I whisked passed him, turning my neck to ask him to keep an eye on my crappy creation.

…

My shallow steps rustle through the curling ochre leaves. 

I look down at my shoes. The bastards pinch at the sides of my feet. No give in them. I should wear them around the house more. Break them in. Preparation has never been my strong suit.

…

“What the fuck do you expect me to do about it? Go back there and apologise?”

I could feel my face flush (acidic anger, nauseating embarrassment), as I roared along the residential street, crunching between first and third.

“That arsehole was purposely crawling along in front. You saw him. ” 

“Tsssss,” Robert exhaled shaking his head. In the window’s reflection I saw the incredulity and irritation sketched across his face. 

…

It’s so perfunctory. The eulogy is so coldly ceremonial. Serves a purpose, I suppose. 

People look nice at least. Formal. But nice. 

…

It was like a magnet was dragging my gaze in his direction. I could barely keep track of Melanie’s story (something about her new boss starting on Monday?) for stealing glances at him every few seconds.

His eyes and lips. They were just so...so beautiful? I couldn’t think of any other way to describe them. The combination of the rich brown irises, and the light rose bloom of his mouth.

Also the way he held himself. So confident, graceful. Commanding yet totally without self-awareness or importance. Damn him. What I wouldn’t give.

“…and so that’s when I picked up a knife and stabbed him in the throat.”

Mel’s face snapped into view.

“Sorry, what?” I murmured drowzily.

“You haven’t heard anything I’ve said for the past five minutes, have you,” she said sharply. “What’s up with you tonight?”

…

One foot crunches in front of the other. Like a magnet, I’m drawn down hill. Away from the church and the mournful crowd gathering beneath its spire. Their hushed tones, their empty words becoming a distant mumble. 

I want to shuck off my heavy coat in the same way. The cold helps; sharpens yet numbs. I need its indifference. (Please).

No I don’t. I need him.

…

I felt the warmth of his foot through the sole of my own. Without looking up from the page I curled my toes around his. 

The tip-tapping on his keyboard abated momentarily. Like a yawning tiger, he stretched his toes, perfectly inhabiting my grip. A jigsaw puzzle clicking satisfactorily into place. 

How long had it been? Thirty four years? What’s that? Beyond pearl, nearly jade. 

And with that, we retreated back to our corners; me to Ali Smith’s Autumn, he to his correspondence. No words needed. Silent bliss. 

...

Even now, after all this time. 

The ground is littered with the dead and discarded echoes of summer. But above them, a few evergreens stand proudly still. Their emerald fronds piercing the sky, reaching out to the slivers of pearlescence among the grey.

Cutting through the stillness, I hear the welcoming rush of the river. 

Onwards. That’s all it knows.

…

A pioneering bead of sweat forged its quiet path down my back. We twisted together, ebbed and flowed. 

My fingers dug into him, pushing in and down through his sinews, his blades, his flanks. As I reached as far as I could, he pulsed forward, renewing our rhythm.

“Fuck,” I breathed. Eyes closed. Don’t think, just flow.

Too late. Through the crack of my lids, I saw the cold blue light of the clock.

Robert would be home soon.

…

The river. A thundering, inexorable rush of near freezing oblivion. 

I barely feel the pinch of my shoes. I close my eyes.

Don’t feel. Don’t flow. 

Too late.

I hear the crinkle of leaves behind me. A hand gently lands on my right shoulder, softly kneading into it. 

Sandalwood. 

The edges of my mouth tighten. My chin begins to tremble. 

“Are you ready?”