Closure

Closure

It started a few years earlier, when I discovered she'd had this
'thing' with another guy, though whether this 'thing' had stopped at
the a-little-too-friendly chat stage or had progressed through the
kiss, grope and fuck stages, I never discovered. She refused to
elaborate and I felt our relationship was strong enough to survive
whatever had taken place, though I still shudder at thought of her with
her knickers round her ankles, in his car or some other sordid little
hole, being screwed senseless by him. I don't really know if it would
be better to know all the grisly details so that I could have 'closure'
on the episode, or to continue to believe that nothing serious happened
at all and that the fucking business is just something I invent at
certain low points to unsettle myself. After all, I love her totally
and wouldn't want to lose what we have, so I try to forget and hope
that whatever it was, it was a one-off, a crisis-driven period that
wont be repeated, no matter how long we stay together. That's what I
thought.

Then I have this dream.

Stupid, isn't it, how badly dreams can effect you? I've woken some
mornings with this feeling of anxiety or great loss, as if something
terrible actually had happened the day before and that, in the hazy
moments of waking, I can't quite remember what it was but that at any
minute the realisation will hit me like a ton of bricks. Often I can't
remember what I've actually dreamed about and somehow that makes the
anxiety even worse. The ones I can remember can usually be shaken off.
I laugh at how silly the dream has been, perhaps spending a few minutes
trying to link the events of the previous day to the absurdity of the
ones my brain has fabricated. Then I move on with the day, forgetting
about it, the feeling of disconcertedness evaporating as quickly as the
steam rising off my first cup of coffee. This dream though was wholly
different, somehow far too realistic and believable for me to forget
quiet so easily. Far too realistic by a long way.

We're having some sort of argument in the station just before taking
our separate routes to work, Central Line for me, Bakerloo for her. I
get the feeling that this argument has been going on since we left
home, but as the dream starts here, in a crowded, noisy Paddington,
with sunlight pooling the concourse and illuminating the diesel smoke
from the 125s, I don't know for sure. I also get the impression that
whatever we are arguing about, it's because of something I've done, or
not done. I'm defending my actions, or none actions, but I know deep
down that it's my fault and that I'm just being bloody-minded. If only
I'd apologise, say 'sorry Darling, I'm being an asshole' we could kiss
and make-up and every thing would be hunky-dory. Of course I don't
realise this until I've stormed off and am heading down towards the
platform. I stop then, suddenly, realising also that it's a Saturday
and that I don't have to go to work. I turn and rush back towards her
route to the Bakerloo line. I can see her a little further on, her head
bobbing amongst the crowd. Instead of trying to catch up with her, I
hang back for some reason, perhaps to enjoy the game of following her
for a while, maybe to simply take pleasure in the look of her, in the
long, shiny auburn hair, in the pale skin and slender neck, in the
knowledge that she's mine. There's a surge in the crowd and I lose
sight of her. I've hung back too far and now I've lost her. The game is
up. I become a little frantic, pushing my way past people that don't
seem to be in too much of a hurry to get to where they're going. I feel
sluggish, held back by invisible hands, my feet leaden as though I'm
wearing heavy boots or I'm running through water. I'm at the top of the
stairs, between the escalators, looking down at the double rows of
heads. She's not there. I turn instinctively and see her, pushing back
through the crowds, back towards the station concourse. I hurry to
follow. This time I will catch up with her and tell her that I'm sorry.
I'll hold her and we'll kiss and then we'll go home and back to bed. I
realise that she's trying to find me and I push harder against the
crowd, dragging my heavy feet and arms forwards to reach her, but
instead of turning left the way I'd come, she heads right, out thorough
the ticket barriers and back up the stairs to the station. Then she
stops and he's there, waiting for her at the top of the stairs, a broad
grin on his face. He slowly walks down towards her, stops a step above
and rests his hands on her shoulders, says something to her, sliding
his hands to her neck and holds her as she reaches up towards him,
tilting her head for a kiss.

The bastard. The pair of bastards.

So it had never ended after all. They're obviously past the quick-shag
stage and are well into the long, slow,
enjoy-a-nice-day-together-and-make-love stage, the
can-you-guess-how-stupid-my-husband-is stage. For fuck's sake what does
she see in him anyway? Is it that he seems such an opposite to me? He's
swarthy, hairy, with tufts of black curly hair showing above the collar
of his short sleeve shirt, running down the length of his arms. He's
hardly what anyone would call handsome with his cup-handle ears and
over large nose. OK he's much taller than I am but he has a beer belly
for God's sake. I feel like crying, I can feel my throat begin to
constrict, beginning to hurt like the onset of a bad case of
tonsillitis. My legs threaten to buckle as I stand watching them. I
desperately need something to lean on but I force myself to follow them
as they head back up the stairs and continue up towards the coffee bar
on the mezzanine. She has an arm around his waist, he drops one hand
and lets it rest on her butt. They're swaying together as they climb,
laughing at something. It's all very intimate and romantic. I snap, run
up the stairs taking them two at a time, my sluggishness mysteriously
gone like I've finally broken free from whatever has been slowing me
down. I reach them at the small platform half-way up, where the stairs
change direction, pass and turn to face them. Her smile fades, she
looks shocked, frightened perhaps. She can't look at me and turns to
stare down at the ticket counters far below. In contrast, his smile
seems to grow wider as he looks at me, over at her, then back at me
again.

'What the hell is going on here?' I hear myself ask though it's
blatently obvious what is going on. 'How could you? With him?' She
turns now and looks at me, holds both hands out towards me, palms
uppermost, an imploring look on her pale face. He seems to tighten his
grip on her, holding her back in case she tries to reach for me.
'Don't!' he says, and I'm not sure who's he talking to. I punch him as
hard as I can and know instantly that I've broken a knuckle. His nose
starts to bleed and there are spots of blood on his shirt. He rubs the
back of his free hand (he hasn't let go of her yet) against his nose,
looks briefly at the blood and begins to laugh. I push him then, as
hard as I can, harder than I've ever pushed anything before, using
every ounce of my strength, backing it up with all my pain and hurt and
anger. That this guy has been enjoying something I thought was ours,
mine and hers alone. That he has felt the warmth of her hands, the
silky smoothness of her body, the taste of her mouth. That they have
shared laughter and intimate times together, is more than I can bare.
And I know, in an instant realisation that what I thought I would never
have to share, has been shared and has been shared with someone so
unlike me, so unlike anyone she claims to like, that I have nothing
left worth bothering about. And in the few seconds that it takes him to
fall to the concourse, with her shrieking hysterically at me, and as a
crowd of people gathers around his still body, some of the faces
upturned, catching the light pouring through the glass roof, that now I
do, at last, feel closure.