Platitudes

            Barristers are self-employed. To some degree we can take time off whenever we want to. Equally, if there’s no work to do on a given day then there’s no need to go to an office and pretend to do something while watching the clock. Today was such a day.

            I decided that I had to go back to our flat. Annabell would be out. I needed some things: clothes and the like.

            As I walked through the door I held my breath. I knew she’d be out but I dashed about from room to room looking for signs of something. A note? Empty ice cream tubs? Tear stained tissues?

Infidelity?

She’d left nothing.

I gathered my things together quickly and considered leaving, going back to Ed’s. I paused. Perhaps I should write her a note? Just let her know where I am so she doesn’t worry. I started to scrawl something down but couldn’t get the wording right. No! She needs to worry. I decided to just go.

I couldn’t. I sat down and started watching mindless television. In the end I didn’t move all day. I didn’t really think about what I was doing, I just sat there. In the back of my mind I knew she’d get home sometime, and I supposed I needed to see her, but as long as I didn’t directly think about it then I couldn’t be blamed.

 

*

 

She arrived home at the usual time and saw me straight away. I jumped up from the sofa and stood across from her, paralysed. She glanced at me and then walked into the bedroom to change out of her suit. I watched her go and expected something more. There was no emotion there, not even surprise to see me or curiosity as to where I’d been. Nothing.

I followed her in and tried to speak.

“How was your day?” I asked, figuring that I would start with civilities, platitudes I suppose.

“Fine, thanks…” And she took my question all too literally, answering in full and telling me all the details of her office politics. I can’t stand this kind of talk; it’s so soulless.

We began to cook an evening meal as though nothing were wrong. Slowly hope began to grow within me. We ate in front of the television and then spoke a little more on pointless topics, the health of our families, that sort of thing. Suddenly I could stand it no longer.

“Annabell!”

“What?” She reacted immediately to my change of mood. She was defensive, barbed.

“I just think we should talk.”

“We are.”

“I mean, really talk.”

She sighed and stood up. She walked away, back into the bedroom. I followed her. She lay down on the bed and looked up at me.

“Tom, I’m tired. Let’s not do this again.”

I lay down next to her and rested my hand on her thigh. She’d changed into a casual skirt.

“Annabell, perhaps if you just let me…” I smiled at her and moved my hand under her skirt. She exhaled breathily.

“Tom. We shouldn’t do this.” I moved my hand further and she gasped. “I don’t love you.” A sigh. “Alright, but I’m telling you: this is meaningless. You can’t build up your hope just because I let you do this.”

She submitted to me but something was wrong. We made love, had sex, woodenly and without emotion. Once it was over she rolled out of bed and left the room. I waited but she never returned. I thought perhaps that I should follow her but something held me back and eventually I fell asleep.