Darker and Colder

          The door slammed on her way out and woke me. No good morning, no good bye.

            I got out of bed to make myself some toast and get ready for my day. It happened that I was in Oxford County Court anyway today so I wasn’t in any hurry.

As I entered the kitchen I saw something I’d missed in my investigations of yesterday: a sticky note attached to the fridge. It read:

 

“Alex – 07765883122”

 

*

 

In court I represented a guy who wanted to repossess his flat from his ex girlfriend who still lived there while he paid the mortgage. She was the mother of his child and had nowhere else to go.

“Should’ve thought of that before you turned into a whorish cunt then eh?” suggested my client from the back of court. The judge was catatonic with rage and gibbered trying to find the appropriate response. I narrowly intervened to apologise and promise it wouldn’t happen again.

I finished early enough and went to a local sandwich shop in the centre of the town. I wondered what to do. I wanted to ask about Alex. I wanted to know who, or what, he was. I texted Annabell to ask.

I waited.

I sat in the café for a full hour watching my phone. Nothing.

I wondered what to do.

I felt compelled to see her again.

I went back to the flat, but I didn’t go in. I concealed myself around a corner and waited. It was nearly time for her to return. Eventually she parked alongside the flat and went inside. I crept nearer the windows and looked inside. I saw her take her phone from her handbag and look at it. She pressed a few buttons and then tossed it idly aside. Didn’t she think she owed me more than that? I couldn’t take it. What was she doing with this Alex? Was she sleeping with him? The thoughts made me physically sick.

I walked away from the flat to the end of the road. There’s a church there. It was getting dark and I decided to sit in the graveyard for a while. It got darker and colder. My head was clear but stuck, like a record. I could only think, over and over again, of what I’d like to say to her, and how she might respond. I covered all possible scenarios and then replayed them all, over and over. Ed sent me a text:

“You still alive? Maybe dead? It’s all good, thought you might want some pasta? Or maybe an apple?” Ed was always trying to make clever references. Apples are the food of the dead in many cultures. It seemed appropriate, given my surroundings. I didn’t answer. I wondered if I shouldn’t go back to London. I thought perhaps I could stay with Annabell, but how could I explain to her why I was still there? I resolved to try anyway, it was getting too late and I was too miserable to get on a train all on my own.

I knocked on her door softly, and then harder a moment later. After some time she opened the door.

“What are doing here?” she asked icily.

“I… er… I was working here today, I wondered if I could stay again.”

“Go away Tom. Leave me alone.” She slammed the door in my face.

“This is my flat too you know!” I shouted after her. But I didn’t use my key.

I walked to the nearest off licence, spinning esprit de l’escalier, and bought two bottles of Stones Green Ginger Wine.

I’ve drunk half of one of them and now I’m sitting in an internet café writing this.

At least it’s warm in here.