It’s the last resort, she’d said. She also garbled something about being sorry for the last minute notice before snatching the house keys and running off.
Today is a big day. She’ll take him to the eight floor of the building, fidgeting with the button of the elevator fan. It’s an important afternoon. She’ll fumble with the lock. When they’re finally inside, she’ll see an envelope with a note on the coffee table. She won’t resist reading it. She’ll head off into the kitchen after that and will come back, more composed, to ask which he would prefer – coffee or tea?
It’s about time. Staring at the computer, contemplating the slow simultaneity of the moment.
There – she must be sitting beside the window: her favourite space. He’s sitting with her, sipping his beverage as she looks him over. No doubt he’d notice how jumpy she is. Will he know why. Will he try to calm her?
He’ll tell her something mundane and follow it up with a joke. She’d laugh hard enough to spill some tea over herself. She’s clumsy and likes tasteless herbal teas; though it’s true that she likes to be seen as a woman of grace and poise. So she’ll be horrified that she’s making the wrong impression. He’d scarcely care, planting a kiss on her forehead. He’ll ask whether she’d like another cup. This time he’d offer to make it. They’re easy to make - herbal teas. He doesn’t want her nervous in the kitchen - could lead to accidents.
It would be the perfect time then, to wrap her arms around him and search out the hollow of his neck. He must have expected her to do that in the end. But she doesn’t like to snuggle in afterwards like most other girls her age.
‘Say something’ she whispers, muffled by his skin. He might prolong the moment of real talk, speaking only of this or that, until his attention returns - like a cow’s to fresh grass - to her breath on his flesh. After a year, it’s a sensation he has forgotten.
If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll say still. Let her drink his scent. He’ll not say a word. Let her feel him breathe – inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. She likes rubbing her forehead against warm skin to feel veins throbbing. She likes her men to be utterly alive in their silence.
Now: to set her on his lap and wrap her into him. Let her feel the cocoon of his warmth and the erratic beat of his heart. She’s a temperamental woman. She takes her time to open up. This would be the perfect time to feel the fullness of her breasts and the surprising weight of her arms. Now’s the right moment to catch up on the lost year - to whisper the state of their souls since he last saw her. But would his patience last? Would he want to know of memories in which he is not included?
The clock has struck three already. Time is not on their side. They might have skipped everything to get right down to it. She’d take him straight into our bedroom. She likes to undress in front of the mirror. Likes a few pairs of eyes looking at her.
She’ll wait, naked and confident, scanning him as he takes off his clothes. And in the hours after sating the other, they’ll really look at each other for the first time. The number of grey hair he’s grown, her hands - which have grown gruff and are not as soft as he remembers. The new moles on his body, fresh wrinkles on hers. They’ll see that and more of the reality around them. He’ll look at someone else’s deodorant on the dresser, she’ll feel for the shape of the familiar man to find a different one.
Then: her heartbeat will tell her I’ve left her forever.
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