Persy: Drapes

The thing about Aiden is- he always gets what he wants and he gets it by doing nothing. Honestly. One time we had a decade-long argument about the drapes in the front room. He insisted they were peach. I said they were salmon. He said it probably didn’t matter anyway, but he was sure that I was wrong. So I said-

‘If it doesn’t matter, then why bring it up?’

‘I don’t know, Persy.’ He replied, ‘I just thought you cared about that stuff.’

I should probably provide some context. Our living room, at the time, had a colour scheme which had been mostly informed by the drapes.  The drapes had come from the old house, a house that had never needed drapes but was filled to the brim with them. At one point, we had drapes disguised as throws, as rugs, as table cloths. Drapes on drapes on drapes, even. It had been a little joke of ours since our old, old house had been so- I suppose desolate is the only nice way to describe it- that we had made a pact to go ridiculously over the top decorating the next one.

There were many houses between that house and the very last one. And by then the drapes had completely lost their jovial, light-hearted warmth. They were instead a reminder of a place that we were both slowly realising we could never go back to. They went up with no joy. They filled the room with no love. We never walked past it and prodded the other, saying-

‘Drapes on drapes on drapes, eh?’

We just didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk to each other at all. Aiden had work. I had work. We had split the domestic duties so that he got the kids and I got the house and there was no overlap. No reason to interject while the other was sinking further and further into the empty nothingness of modern day life.

Until the drapes.

I can’t remember what he opened with. or how he closed. I just couldn’t get the thought that all my work had come to nothing. That something was wrong in our showroom home. It was my job. It was one of my only jobs. And somehow, without me realising, it had changed colour with no warning and no prompting. Or had it?

If I had been looking at it objectively, and I can never look anything objectively when Aiden is around, I would have been able to decipher his coded message. For clearly, what he had wanted to say was-

‘I can’t bear to look at those drapes every day, Persy. I can’t comprehend how much has changed since we lived in Florence, and Marrakech, and Constantinople and Carthage. I know in the beginning it was bad, sitting on uncomfortable stone thrones, sleeping on a wooden bed that was too small. Your mother would visit and make you cry. You couldn’t get anything to grow down in Hades. But somehow, now, I think it was good. Am I crazy, or do you see it too? We thought we had nothing, but, in fact, we had everything. We had each other. We sacrificed so much to have the chance to grow together and it seems growing has actually torn us apart. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d never taken you with me all those years ago.’

Something like that.

But Gods forbid he actually say it. Actually do something.

So he left the thought with me. Left it to me to destroy what was left of our marriage. Because I heard a different message in the following silence. I heard-

‘Take it down and start again.’

And I knew the minute it settled in my head that I could not start again. Not again. Couldn’t repeat the pause and reset combination again. I was spent. I was overdrawn.

There comes a time in every 2000 year old’s life when she must make peace with the fact that some things, some obstacles are insurmountable. That patience and love and understanding are not a fountain, but a well and the well will run dry if you dip in too much and too often. Being married to a man who is scared of his own voice is a sure fire way to turn that well into a cavernous abyss. And the abyss will start within you and then move between you. And then swallow one of you whole.

Aiden got what he wanted. I took the drapes down. I took the drapes with me, and I left. For good. The thing about me is- I never get what I want. But I’m very good at tricking myself into thinking I do.

 

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That Time Again

‘Well, Meg. It’s that time again.’

Fred stands on the door step, puffing on the last of cigarette. Meg holds the door open, waiting for him to finish. The sky is bloctchy, black and brown. The streetlights make Fred’s shadow look like a heaving black blob.

‘You’re letting all the warmth out.’ She shivers. Fred tosses his stub into the bush and crosses the threshold. He wipes his feet slowly and deliberately on the doormat. Meg cannot watch him any longer and heads into the kitchen, exasperated.

The remnants of the pasta bake, which she had just warmed up before he arrived, are now cold. She picks at the pasta shapes with her fork. When he comes in, he pulls out the chair, scraping it along the tiled floor, and starts to take his coat off.

‘No.’ Meg says, ‘You’re not going to be here for that long.’

‘Well, I gotta count the money, don’t I?’ He asks, leaning heavily on the chair.

He’d put on weight. No, muscle. He had always flourished as a bachelor. Underneath his coat he wore a nice suit. Zara Men maybe. TM Lewin?

Fred produces a money clip from the breast pocket of his suit. It  barely contains the thick wad of cash between its teeth. Fred waves it with a smile. Meg barely blink.

‘900 for rent.’ She rattles off,  ‘160 for school dinners. Lex needs a new PE Kit. That’ll be 50. Rowan’s going on holiday with Godmother and he’s going to need spending money.’

‘How much?’

‘Another 50.’

‘Let’s call it 100.’

He counts out the notes, licking his fingers, desperately trying to not to cackle with glee. Meg doesn’t watch the money the way he watches the money. She watches him. How different his very features seems. His soft smiling eyes are mean. Greedy. Lost.

‘What about you?’ He says, sliding the pile of money towards her. ‘You wanna do something? Your hair looks like it needs some love.’

‘I can look after myself, thanks.’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Well, whatever it looks like, I don’t need anything from you.’

She stands up and chucks the pasta bake in the bin.

‘Maybe not money…’ He says, quietly. When Meg doesn’t turn around, he gets up, joins her at the sink.

‘When was the last time you-‘

He places a hand gently on her shoulder, moves it slowly down her back. Meg suddenly turns around, the fork from the pasta bake hovers dangerously close to Fred’s Adam’s Apple.

‘Take your hands off me.’

He backs away.

‘Relax-‘

‘You think you can come in here, waving your blood money at me and what? Get back in this house?’

‘Megan-‘

‘Do you even care about your kids? Because you never ask about them. You’ve been here for half an hour and you haven’t mentioned them once.’

‘Of course-‘

‘Go home, Freddy. You’ve done your song and dance and now I’d like you to leave.’

‘Megan-‘

‘Now.’

Fred picks up his coat, defeated.

‘I really-‘

‘Out.’

He throws his coat on and leaves. The money on the table flies about in the gust.

 

Big Mouth

‘Make way! Make way!’

Teddy wrestles through the crowd, brandishing his police badge. No one turns round to see it. They are all fixed on the woman in the centre, pinned down by some ‘good Samaritans’.

‘That’s enough!’ He yells, but it disappears beneath the din of the spectacle. He reaches the heart of it, where three men and one woman use all their weight to keep the woman from escaping.

‘I’ll take it from here!’

The woman is still writhing on the ground as they slowly release her. The pocket of her jacket is torn. Her two thick braids have come undone where the concerned citizens have trampled on it. She can’t be more than 100 pounds, and the pressure of four bodies on top of her has winded her.

Teddy kneels down, pulls her gently upright.

‘Wren, it’s me.’ He says quietly.

She either doesn’t see him or doesn’t care. She shoots up and attempts to run, only to be shoved back to the ground by the wall of people. Teddy pulls her up again, this time restraining her.

‘If you don’t stop fighting, they’ll call back up!’ He spits into her ear.

‘I haven’t done anything!’ She shoots back

‘I saw you!’ Yells someone from the crowd, ‘You were there, at the crossing. I saw you move the bus!’

‘I didn’t touch it!’

‘You moved it! You moved it with your mind! I saw you make the gesture.’

‘I was flagging down a taxi!’

‘I saw your eyes.’ He states, striking the condemning blow.

‘He’s lying,’ Wren appeals, turning to Teddy. Her eyes are filling with tears.

‘I didn’t do anything. Please!’

‘I’m taking you in,’ He says, firmly.

‘Teddy-‘

‘You know the rules.’

He slips a pair of cuffs out of his pockets and forces them on her. She whimpers as the metal closes around her wrist.

‘You.’ He says, turning to the bystander who spoke out,  ‘You say you saw her?’

The bystander nods.

‘Can you swear to that?’

The bystander takes a moment and nods again.

‘Come with me.’


The bystander walks behind the Police Officer, as he marches the Woman towards his car. The doors hang open from where he must have shot out in a haste.

It is not a typical police car, something nondescript. The bystander concedes the officer must be CID or undercover.

Some tools have spilled into the road from a black wallet lying across the driver’s seat. The bystander can’t work out what they are. They look complicated. Sharp.

The Police Officer puts the Woman in the front passenger seat, then opens the back door for the bystander.

‘Am I supposed to sit in the back?’ The bystander asks, unsure of the procedure.

The Police Officer looks at him sternly.

‘Are you the police officer or am I?’

The bystander hesitates, and the Police Officer’s face grows darker.

‘Get in.’

The bystander gets into the car. The Police Officer gathers up the tools and then gets into the car.

‘Teddy-‘ The Woman starts. The Police Officer shakes his head. He puts the key in the ignition.

‘Teddy, please, you have to believe-‘

The Police Officer reaches for her face. Both the bystander and the woman hold their breath. The Police Officer gently brushes gravel off the woman’s cheeks. There is something in his eyes. Familiarity? Care?

‘Teddy?’ The bystander repeats, incredulously. The Police Officer finally looks at him through the rear view mirror.

‘You got a problem?’ He asks.

‘No.’ Stammers the bystander.

‘Would you like one?’

The bystander’s heart stops.

‘No.’ He whispers.

‘Well, then.’ The Police Officers says, turning the car around, ‘You shouldn’t have such a big mouth.’

The click of the doors locking rings in the bystander’s ears. The Police Officer reaches over and, with one of his steel tools, unlocks the Woman’s handcuffs.

‘You’re going to have to help me get rid of him.’ He says, handing her the tool.

The Woman looks at the bystander through the mirror, her face changing from nervous to resolved.

‘Of course.’

The car creeps out of the city, as the the bystander’s muffled screams reach no one.

 

Be Still

Be still, my love. When you squirm, it breaks my heart. The blade is sharp, but my tongue is sharper. Be still, or I’ll wail the house down.

This is the greatest compliment. The only testament worthy of our love. We’ll be together for always. Always. Hand in hand. Arm in arm. Dermis on dermis.

Be still. Please. I only slice because I love you. I move my hands with love and grace, to honour you. To honour our love.

I only want to wear your skin, the way all lovers want to. To touch the things you touch. To feel the things you feel.

I only want us to be one and the same. The truest of loves. Two halves of a whole.

Be still, for now. Be still. I feel your pain, it has become my own. I fear and feel the ache of a heart that yearns to attach itself to you.

When you cry, I cry. When you laugh, just the same. As you bleed, I bleed. Not literally, but you understand. One is a metaphor, the other is fact. A few more drops and then it’s done.

You and I will be one.

But still, you wince. Even though I don’t ask for much. I love you. That is all. What’s a little blood between lovers?