One of Those Moments

 

He places the machine in its cradle, the sentences still echoing in his ears.

Waits for a moment before heading into the living room where she’s watching the headlines, wondering how to time the pause; whether too much silence will scare her – but then remembers that the words themselves are the bad part and timing won’t really make a difference.

   She’s flipping between News channels; tuts in exasperation when the same pictures are repeated. He stands in the doorway, watching and waiting for her to be alert to his presence. Fixes his face into a grave expression.

   “Erm...”

   She doesn’t even look round, grabs at her cigarettes and shakes one out, gaze still fixated on the screen. Eyes flitting over her face, her body, he thinks about how beautiful she is when annoyed; sometimes he says moronic things purposely just to see her eyes flash. She’s beautiful when she cries too. He wonders if she’ll cry straightaway and whether she’ll do it in front of him, head pressed into his shoulder, or push him away and run into the bathroom.

   “Abir,” he says quietly. “Abir?”                                                                           

Eventually, she shifts to look at him. “What?” she snaps. 

   It suddenly isn’t beautiful, and he’s glad to have the news, feels his mind brandish it like a weapon: punish her for reacting to his voice with anger in her own. He rips the words from their mental holster, but then fumbles and drops them.

   “She’s dead,” he blurts out.

   “Dead? Who’s dead...your Mum? Oh god, is it your Mum?”

   This immediate switch to concern softens him, and he’s instantly sorry for gleefully anticipating the collapse of her face. Now he’s fumbling deliberately, searching for the right phrases, a cushion to take the impact of the blow.

   “No. No, not my Mum. Someone you know...knew. A while ago.”

   “One of my sisters?”

   He shakes his head.

   She stares at the radiator, lost in its ribbed whiteness while she rushes through an internal catalogue of names and faces. He wonders how many of them are people she’s fucked.

   “Who then? Mick, who?”

   His lips part but the word catches in his throat.

   “Mick, will you just tell me! Who’s dead?”

   He allows himself an indulgent second to be glad she doesn’t know, that this particular person didn’t spring forth from the top of her list. Maybe it won’t be so bad, he thinks, maybe she’ll just shrug it off as one of those things that happen. Nervously, he smiles.

   “Are you winding me up? Because that’s a really shitty thing to do, saying someone’s died.”

   “You told work your grandad died yesterday,” he says.

   “Yeah, work’s different. I’m your girlfriend, you’re not supposed to lie to me. So are you just messing?”

   It has gone on too long, and somehow he’s begun an argument. She’ll remember this if it devastates her, he thinks. She’ll remember that I made her think it was a joke, and the relief she experienced right before I broke the news.

   “Anyway, my grandad is dead so that’s not as bad. Leah used to say it was ok if you used someone who’s already dead, but it’s sort of bad luck if you don’t, and if they die then you’ll feel bad -”

   His eyes swivel wildly; he can’t help it. I’d never hold up under interrogation, he thinks.

   “Oh god, I’m sorry,” she says, getting up off the couch and holding her hands up in a cautious surrender. “I didn’t mean to say her name, it just slipped out. Sorry. I know I promised not to.”

   She looks to him for a response but he feels frozen.

   “Shit, I can’t even go one weekend; you must be thinking really bad things. I’m sorry, Mick. Sorry. Forgive me?”

   That cute smile.

   “I haven’t been to see her for months – I promise – it’s just we lived together for ages so things are still in my head...”

   “It’s fine,” he croaks.

   “It’s not, is it? Shit, I’m sorry.”

   “Please...it’s fine.”

There are tears in his eyes and they’re not for Leah. It’s about to be over; things are poised on the verge of changing irreversibly, and he hates that it’s him who has to give them that vital nudge.

   “Hey, what’s wrong?” She tugs at his arm like a toddler clamouring to be picked up. “Talk to me.”

   “It’s not a joke. Someone’s died. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

Really, really sorry.

   “Who? Mick...?”

   “Leah,” he gasps, and once the syllables have gushed out he feels liberated. “Leah, it’s Leah. Leah’s dead.”

   She just stares, mouth twitching like a goldfish.

   “You look like a goldfish,” he tells her.

   Breaking news is turning out to be a better high than the two bottles of red he had last night.

   “  - ” she mumbles.

   “Say again, Abs?”

   “CUNT!” she screams in his face.

She tries to slap him, like an enraged Peggy Mitchell, but he ducks back out of her reach.

  “Hey, hey,” he says. “Calm down.”

   “Who was on the phone? How did she die? HOW COULD YOU STAND THERE CHATTING SHIT AND NOT TELL ME, YOU FUCKING BASTARD?”

   “Leah’s mum. She said...she said she hanged herself. Look, Abir, I know you’re upset but –”

   She’s grabbing her bag and stuffing things into it; cigarettes, lighter, mobile phone.

   “Where are you going?” he asks.

   “Fuck you.”

   “No, seriously, where are you going? You can’t run over to Leah’s now every time you’re pissed off with me. How’d you think that made me feel, you bitching about me with your ex-fucking-girlfriend? Eh?”

   She’s storming into the hallway.

   “You’re such a prick. I hate you. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me!”

   He’s trying to block her way, stop her getting to the front door. If he can defuse her, she’ll stop exploding in his face...and maybe he can cum all over hers later when they have post-death sex. Like people after funerals. And afterwards she’ll say she feels guilty and he’ll explain that it’s perfectly natural and merely a celebration of life.

   “You’re upset. I’m not letting you walk the streets at this time of night when you’re upset.”

   “Piss off and get out of my way.”

   “I’m serious. You’re shooting the messenger here. You need to talk and have hugs and be comforted...”

   “As if YOU can comfort me! Just fuck off, Mick, ok?”

   “It’s ok that you’re upset about Leah,” he says slowly. “Of course you’re upset, she’s your best friend and for years she was your everything and you’re going to miss her lots...”

   Bingo. Her face crumples, and he manoeuvres her into his arms, face pressed into his chest.

   “Sshhh, that’s ok. It’s ok to cry.”

 

   Stroking her hair, he wonders how long it’ll be before the urge to celebrate life kicks in.