Missing J

I was thinking about J.

We play badminton at his local leisure centre. He’s better than I am, which makes me admire him and want to kick his arse in one desperate smash. He kisses away my sweat.

We’re living together. It’s twilight. I’m at a table with my laptop, writing. He’s on the Xbox, barking orders to his teammates via a headset. He’s made couscous with lamb, and we eat together on his small sofa, before shutting down, and talk shit in bed until we fall asleep. Work has made us too tired for any hanky-panky, for once.

We’ve moved into a house. My mum visited the night before. J’s mum is due at the weekend. I try feeding the baby in his high chair. His tiny eyes watch J walk out the front door with a rubbish bag. He doesn’t take a bite until he returns.

My girlfriends are older: married, single, living with a partner, pregnant, or mothers. They all bring wine.

My boy comes to visit from university. He says he’s doing OK. He has bags under his eyes. J suggests a walk and shuffles to the door.

It’s a hospital room. My men hold my hands. Ungratefully, I’ve mostly enjoyed life’s offerings. Mostly. I’m not quite ready to go. I can't imagine the funeral, or what happens afterwards – call it self-absorbed.

I send J a text: ‘What shall we do this weekend, handsome? Xxx’

‘Whatver tou want, babe. Xxx’, he replies.