Millimetres

The two stools perched half a metre apart. Her drink, a thin stemmed glass of wine, spritzed with tonic, rested on the surface of the bar, glossy residue running in rivulets down the curved inside She clasped it at the base. He lifted his pint of Adnams and sipped slowly, using the upward motion to try to take her in.

Around the rim of his drink, his eyes caught hers and he looked away. She wasn’t her. How could he have even contemplated this? What would Bonnie think of him? He’d have to finish this drink and make some excuses. He couldn’t do it. He’d let her down. Just being here, he’d failed her, failed her memory. And that memory was failing, day by day.

Now, when he woke in the morning, it was taking longer for her face to form in his mind. Its lines were distorting, the edges loosing their definition; her voice when it spoke was fading more and more to a whisper. He would reach desperately, his joints straining under the pressure, beneath the bed to retrieve a small wooden box and fumble with the gold clasp that held it shut. Once undone, he would throw open the lid and rummage like a starving child desperate for sustenance; amongst the ticket stubs of films once wept or laughed at, receipts of jewellery once purchased, fine chains of lockets once worn against her soft neck until he found the photograph he was searching for. His hand would clutch at the grainy print where she rested her white chin in her porcelain hands against the grey background of their living room and stared at him. The heat of her smile danced in her eyes. Then, he remembered.

He remembered waltzing softly in ballrooms with arched ceilings where light fell gently on the shapes they created. He felt the curve of her back in his palm, the feel of her pulse as the music quickened. He recalled mornings in winter when the heating failed and they would warm milk on the gas stove and return to the cocoon of their bed to sip on it. He felt again, the everlasting joy and pride she provided him when their daughter was born and when her face, tired and crying, mouthed ‘I love you.’ At the end, although it came from lips then parched and dry, hidden amongst sagging skin in a sunken face, he only had to hear those words again, and he saw everything she used to be. Fifteen years after her body was laid to rest, it only took that photograph to bring her back.

Sitting there at the bar, he drew on his pint and placed a foot on the floor as if to go.

She looked at him. Her eyes, sparkling blue and creased at the edges from a lifetime of laughter stopped him.

‘It’s ok,’ she said, softly.

He didn’t move; the foot hovered mid-air.

‘I’m just happy to sit awhile, to just be here. I know it’s hard. I think of Peter too and I wonder what he would say.’

Her hand glided slowly away from her glass and stopped an inch from his, which was stiff on the bar. In the background, the sound of a stadium crowd from the TV perched high on the wall meant a team had scored. To the left of the bar, a dark haired man wearing a checked shirt potted three balls in a row at the pool table; his friend cried out in disbelief. He looked at her for several, long moments. Under his gaze, her smile spread, the eyes creasing further as it climbed outwards. He placed his foot back onto the stool and sighed.

‘I don’t know if I’m betraying her by being here, by just being here.’

She nodded her assent.

‘But the house gets cold. I turn on the heating to full and still, it’s cold.’

‘And you find that you’re talking to yourself,’ she added. ‘Or making two cups of tea rather than one.’ She laughed. And that’s just after five years. Lord only knows what’ll happen to me when the dementia truly kicks in. Sometimes, I drink both cups.’

He returned the laughter, swallowed the cool bitterness of his pint, draining it of its contents.

‘Maybe,’ she said tentatively, the words taking their first steps cautiously from her mouth, ‘maybe you could tell me about her.’

His eyes jumped upwards. ‘I could?’ A question, the hope too naked to go unnoticed.

‘You could,’ she said. On the bar, his hand relaxed, the muscles relieved. ‘You could,’ she repeated. ‘I’d like to hear all about her. I can imagine how wonderful she was, but I bet that’s nothing compared to how you could describe her.’

‘Oh, I could describe her. I’m no Wordsworth, but I could tell you about her, if you really wanted to hear?’ The words came tumbling out, his face loosing ten of its 65 years in an instant.

She nodded. He motioned to the barman. Another pint of Adnams and a white wine spritzer were ordered. Without realisation, their hands moved a millimetre closer.