Cats and Women

            Today it was my job to defend a criminal. Of course, technically, he wasn’t a criminal until after I’d dealt with him…

            He was accused of perpetrating a domestic burglary. He was pleading not guilty and it was my job to represent him at his trial. I arrived early enough and obtained a CCTV video of the incident from the prosecutor. It showed my client very clearly breaking a window and entering a property. It was rather difficult to see what possible defence could be raised. I went to see him.

            We went into a conference room and swapped introductions.

            “Now Mr [Burglar], I’ve had a look at the CCTV. Have you had a chance to see this yet?”

            “No need. I know what happened.”

            “Er… Right. Would you like to tell me then?”

            “No need. None of the witnesses are going to come.”

            “Right. Let’s suppose they do. Or, let’s suppose the prosecution simply play the video. What happened?”

            Mr Burglar happened to be a very young man without a place to live. He’d been cold, hungry and a little drunk at the time. I got the main facts out of him. He’d done it. He was guilty.

            “What did it feel like? Breaking into someone’s house like that, late at night?”

            “Eh? What’s it matter? I was cold.”

            “No, but how did it feel? Knowing that someone was in there, asleep, and you were in their house, doing whatever you felt like?”

            “I… er… I don’t know. I’m sorry, I suppose.”

            “No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t care what you’ve done, I’m not paid to judge you. I want to know: was it exciting?”

            “You’re not like my usual brief mate, are you sure you’re okay?”

            I gave up. But something about it still fascinates me. I somehow can’t even properly conceive of living in anarchy, breaking the law and living according to my own rules, rather than those of society. Are these law breakers, these criminals, really evil, or are they just smart enough to see that there’s actually nothing stopping you from doing exactly what you want, provided you don’t get caught? Of course, that’s where all my clients go wrong.

 

*

 

            I’m home before Annabell, as always. I’m going to leave her alone tonight. I’ll obey the golden rule of cats and women: let them come to you.

Not the Point

          I woke up to an empty house this morning. Annabell had already gone to work. My clerks never called last night which means I still have no work for today.

            After following the usual morning procedures I sat down in the living room and tried to decide what to do. Annabell had been on my computer again and that got me thinking about that bastard. Mark was his name. I started to wonder if she was going to see him for lunch today, or any time this week. He had suggested it. I tried to hack into her account using first the browser history and then random passwords I thought might work. I failed.

            It occurred to me that she would have other records lying around. I might find evidence somewhere else. I opened all her drawers and examined her bank statements and phone records. There were numbers that I didn’t recognise, and even a few withdrawals that I couldn’t logically place. What did it all add up to though? I had no idea. I tried to place it all back as it had been before I messed with it.

 

*

 

            Ed called around midday.

            “Where the hell are you Evans?”

            “Er… I’m at home.”

            “Fuck that. Is this the way you repay me? I just left my girlfriend for you.”

            “I asked you not to do that.”

            “Not the point, Evans, not the point at all. You owe me, and I expect to see you back here later.” He hung up.

 

*

 

            I spent the afternoon thinking about Annabell. It seemed things were getting better: we slept together! It was a sure sign.

            Except that it wasn’t. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Tonight was almost a carbon copy of yesterday. She arrived home, talked about her day, made dinner and then went to bed. This time there was no sex, only increasing anger.

            “Won’t you please just get it into your head that we’re done? Look, your being here just isn’t working. Either you move out or I will.”

            “Annabell! Please!”

            “No, Tom. I’m not talking about it any longer. I’m going to bed. Alone.”

            I have to admit it, she does seem serious. There’s got to be some way to get through to her though. I can’t give up. My colleagues, my mum, they’ll never let me forget it if I let a girl like this get away.

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.

Alice

“Free will is an illusion. People always choose the perceived path of greatest pleasure.”

- Scott Adams

 

          Ed’s an English teacher now and I think he hates it. We got the same degree in the end: despite his best efforts, Ed did have a remarkable talent, and I worked hard. After that I told him I’d like to become a barrister and he scorned me. He was suddenly overcome with some kind of social conscience. He saw the law as an affront to common decency and morality, a self-serving set-up where only the lawyers ever won, while teaching was the key to a better future. He hated the privileged and the pretentious, lawyers, and deep down wanted to champion those with the same disadvantages he’d suffered.

            Now, however, two years later, he was becoming disillusioned, and resentful of the fact that teachers should be paid so little. It was yet another injustice handed down by those arrogant bastards in power who had no idea what it was like to really live in this country, making your own way. Of course, many of these politicians were once barristers and solicitors…

            And so, because Ed had his philosophies, I was forced to go to work today in a knock-off teacher’s suit.

 

*

 

            My offices are actually in central London, in the Temple, even though I moved out to Oxford with Annabell. She prosecutes there and so, in many ways, it made sense. Today, staying with Ed, I got back in the early afternoon, paperwork for the day complete.

            We chatted about Ed’s latest reading conquests for a while and then, in early evening he got up to cook me dinner. As he pushed a slab of beef around a frying pan he suddenly spoke, and changed topic.

            “I’ve been thinking. Since you’re single, I’d better be so too.”

            Ed had been dating a truly lovely girl called Alice for some months now. She was half Hungarian and half English. She had grown up in Hungary and still had a residual accent, though her English was perfect. Ed seems to have some kind of phobia of straight forward English girls; he hates them all. The only proper girlfriend he ever had is also the only English girl he’s ever dated, Jane. Personally I think it’s because English girls see straight through his confident arrogance to his awkward insecurities whereas foreign girls just see the strength and magnetism of him. Somehow, other subtleties are lost on them. Alice, I believe, saw it all, and really loved him. I thought she was perfect for him. I was therefore shocked by what he said.

            “Setting aside the fact that I’m not single, you can’t! Alice is wonderful!”

            “I disagree. She’s nothing special. In fact, I’m going to do it right now.”

            He took out his phone from his pocket and dialled a number. I sat in silent disbelief watching him.

            “Hello? Alice? Yes. I’m fine thanks. Yeah, listen, never mind all that right now, I’ve got something to say.”

            “Ed! What are you doing? You can’t…” I tried. He waved an angry hand in my direction.

            “Yes, sorry, that’s just Tom being an idiot. Right, listen to me. It’s not working out between us. I’m afraid we can’t see each other any more.”

            Ed took the phone from his ear and held it out in front of him, looking at it. I could hear no sound come from it. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow, shrugging his shoulders. “Good.” He said. “That’s that sorted then.” He hung up and smiled at me.

            I was horrified.

            “You can’t treat someone that way. Especially not Alice, she doesn’t deserve it.”

            “I can, Tom. You have to learn that life isn’t all about other people. You live inside your own skull and you can’t ever really get out. You can’t ever really connect to someone and see life through their eyes can you? So you’ve got to do what’s right for you.” He laughed, callously. A thought occurred to me.

            “You didn’t do it, did you? You’re just trying to teach me something. There was no one on the other end of that call!”

            “There was. I’ll prove it.” He dialled a number on the phone and handed it to me. The display read ‘Calling Alice’. It was ringing.

            “Hello! Ed? What was all that about?” She was crying.

            “Alice?” I said. “Is it you?”

            “Who’s that? Tom? Yes, it’s Alice. What’s Ed doing? Is this one of his silly jokes?”

            Ed had been listening closely. At this question he nudged me, smiled and shook his head. I looked at him with disgust.

            “No.” I exhaled. “It doesn’t seem to be a joke. Not in the sense that he doesn’t mean it anyway.”

            “Why? Everything was fine. I don’t understand.”

            “Alice.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. But I felt for her. After the week I’d had I really knew what she was going through. “I’m very sorry. Honestly. I thought you were lovely. I… I’ll talk to him.”

            She carried on sobbing and I hung up.

            “What are you doing?” I said. “Sometimes I really can’t understand you Ed.”

            “Ah well. I’d’ve thought you’d be happy. Grateful even.” He shrugged and thrust out his lower lip. “Have it your own way.” He carried on cooking, apparently unconcerned.

            I took out my own phone. I was filled with a sudden desire to run away from this place, and go back to Annabell, away from this monster. As I brought the screen up before my face I experienced the familiar pang of doomed hope that I might see a message or a missed call. Nothing. I was stuck.

            Inertia took hold and suddenly I was eating. It was getting later. I couldn’t go back to Annabell, that is, I can’t, until she understands what really matters and calls me.

            So I’m still here, in London.

The Decent Thing to Say

            Flashbacks. That’s all I’ve got.

            I was sitting in a bar with Ed. We were talking about speed dating. I was looking for some positive. I started crying. Ed bought me another drink.

            Fields and hedges. We were climbing up a hill, to a church and a graveyard. I remember it… there was a grave up there belonging to Allegra Byron, the poet’s illegitimate daughter. I remember reading the epitaph. Byron used to sit up there as boy, inspired by the church, hidden amongst the trees on top of the hill. We sat there, Ed and I, drinking a bottle of wine. I don’t remember where we got it. Suddenly Ed spoke, calm and reflective:

 

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return’d to Earth!

 

            Running down a street without reason. Wild, running for the sake of the wind. Ed shouting something. Suddenly I’m tackled to the ground. Two Asian men with thick beards are lying on the pavement with me. Everyone’s laughing, I’m not concerned.

            Noise. Shouting. I’m in Ed’s bathroom, lying on the floor. Someone’s banging on the door. I get up, open the door and stagger into bed.

 

*

 

            Ed woke me rudely this morning, without compassion.

            “Time to get up Evans!” He often calls me by my surname.

            I stirred with pain, groaned, and pulled the duvet up over my head. Ed ripped it away from me and opened the curtain. Light cut straight into the core of my brain and seared whatever fibres remained.

            “Come on, it’s midday already. And I’ve cooked you bacon.”

            We went down and had breakfast. I ate slowly, allowing the pain of the night before to fade into the pain of the present, and my memory of Annabell. I’d rather have stayed in ignorant agony.

            “What now then?” Asked Ed.

            “I should go home.”

            “She doesn’t want you.”

            Occasionally I really wish Ed would say the decent thing and not simply speak his mind. This is a vain hope. He cannot stand that kind of dissimulation.

            “I must go home anyway. I never told her where I was going. She’ll worry.”

            Ed said nothing.

            “I wish she’d ask me to come home though.”

            “Exactly. Don’t just go running back. Let her worry. Let her wonder where you’ve gone.”

            “Right.” I said, unsure.

            “Stay here, with me, until she calls you.”

            And so I am. It’s late now. She still hasn’t called.

Ed

          I woke this morning feeling miserable. Not hung-over; empty.

            What if she doesn’t come back to me? There are so many angles I’ve been carefully ignoring until now. She prosecutes! I defend! What if we face each other in court? It hasn’t happened yet, but it could…

            What if she starts to date other people I work with? I couldn’t stand it! My girlfriend screwing some other guy that I have to work alongside? What if she fucks one of my opponents, and I know it? How could I live down the shame of it? Knowing this other guy had somehow got the better of me. I don’t understand it. She’s mine. I need her and she needs me.

            What if she brings some other man back here? To where we live? I’ve got no where to go! I have to get out of here…

 

*

 

            I met Ed Donavon years ago at university in London, studying English. He was everything I wasn’t. He was, and is, anarchic. He was always so blunt, base and vulgar about things, as though by challenging someone with pure crassness he could somehow become master of them. He didn’t have the opportunity to go to public school like me but had to work his way through the grammar schools. He resented me for my background and I didn’t much like him either.

            We were thrown together in the same tutorial group and instantly became enemies. Over time, however, we came to respect each other during our academic debates and through the sheer diversity of our ideas. Ed, in particular, is a constant font of unpredictable thinking. I won his respect by keeping up with his trains of thought. As it happened our minds worked with uncanny similarity. Ed would jump from one subject to another but I would already be there. He could produce the greatest non-sequitur and I’d reply instantaneously, stretching it one level further, without pause to ask how he’d arrived there.

            Eventually we teamed up to write and act out a play. I thought it a work of genius: Ed’s insanity, restrained and ordered by my efforts. We performed it before the entire department, professors and students. It should’ve been our moment of glory but Ed resented our audience somehow, he felt they didn’t understand him, or something. He wrecked it half way through, ad libbing absurdly. I tried to keep up with him and make sense of his outbursts but it was no good. We ended up looking insane, at best. That nearly wrecked my degree, even though it wasn’t assessed. I had to work hard to regain any credibility. Ed found my concerns hilarious. He didn’t care. I should’ve cut him out right then but I couldn’t. I was compelled to stick around him, to find out what he’d do or say next.

            In time he came to tolerate my accent and my conservative lifestyle and I came to tolerate his boorish social ineptitude. By the time we left he was in many ways my best friend. Something about the way our friendship had developed led me to trust him in an unparalleled way, for better… or for worse.

            Annabell hates him.

 

*

 

            I’m packed and leaving for London. Ed has a flat near Kilburn and I’m going to stay with him tonight. I can’t hang around here surrounded by ghosts of Annabell all weekend.

The Witching Hour

            Annabell’s gone home to her parents for the weekend. I arrived back from work this afternoon to find a note she’d left. So now she’ll talk to them, and her brothers. Luckily they approve of me. They know I’ll provide for her.

            But they’ll know. They’ll know we’re not fine and that I’m apparently not perfect. It’s embarrassing. How will I face them when I next see them? I know she’ll talk to them and if they bring her round then so be it, but relationships should be private. This discussion of our business with others is so coarse and disrespectful.

           

*

 

            I’ve started drinking. Just a few ales from the fridge but it’s only six and I never drink until later in the evening. And I never drink alone.

           

*

 

            It’s the middle of the night now, the witching hour of early Saturday morning.

            I’m not drunk, just corybantic.

            Around midnight I decided to go for a walk. I used to go to school here in Oxford, years ago now. I walked to my old school and found a spot in one of the school parks that is far from the road and far from any houses. It’s private property but there’s no difficulty climbing over the fences to get there. I used to go there with a friend of mine, Robin, to discuss things late at night. It was a minor rebellion – as borders at the school we were not supposed to be out at those times – though we never got caught. The rule breaking lent an edge of life to the time we spent out there and inspired us to discuss what really mattered. I recall that most of our old conversations used to be about love. I’d never have dreamt in those days that I’d end up with such a thoroughly well admired girl…

            I sat there, in that spot, drinking more and remembering all my dreams. I haven’t been back there since I left. For a while tonight it was as though I could reach my hand back through time and touch history. Nothing had changed. I still dream of future happiness, when everything will have been resolved.

            Eventually I began to walk home. The journey goes through some very pretty areas of Oxford: down little cobbled moonlit alleys and past magnificent old buildings. A few people were still around, mostly a bit drunk and on their way home.

            Suddenly, before I knew it, I found myself following a girl, alone and on her way home. I was hidden in the shadows, wearing mostly black. Strips of light cut across me and exposed areas of flesh. I stood motionless whenever she paused. I began to develop such a feeling! She had no idea I was there but I watched her every move. Somehow I seemed to have total power over her and everything around me. I could do anything, and no one would ever know. After all… who would ever question a barrister? We’re so… stable and responsible.

I’m a veritable pillar of society.

Yeah. Let’s not forget that.

Out there, on the street, I remembered it and came home. I’ve no business wandering about the streets like a vagabond.

Connie

            My case finished this morning. I lost. I made it back home to our flat just after lunch. I’m on my computer now and this time Annabell hasn’t left any web pages open. There’s nothing for me to do but sit and wait for her to return. I’ve got to get my head straight. If there’s any chance that the last couple of days haven’t helped her then I’ve got make sure I get through to her.

 

*

 

            Two and a half years ago Annabell was being difficult about something. This was not uncommon. Back then, however, I was somehow much more relaxed. There was less need in me. I laughed at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Connie.”

“Connie?”

“That’s your new name. For when you’re difficult. It’s short for Annaconda.”

Back then she laughed, and the tension broke.

 

*

 

            She arrived home just before seven. She came through the door slightly surprised to see me.

            “I was expecting you to be home late!”

            “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

            “No.” She frowned and put down her things. She looked up at me again and frowned once again, while removing some papers from her bags. She took them and made to leave the room.

            “Connie, wait.” She flashed a look of pure disgust at me. I know she hates that nickname. I know it sounds somehow… pleading… every time I say it but it’s a bad habit and I can’t seem to stop myself. It used to work.

            “Look, we need to talk…”

            “No. We don’t.”

            “Annabell! I need to tell you: you’re the most perfect girl I’ve ever known. You’re beautiful and perfect. I love you.”

            “Stop it Tom!” She said. But this time she was slightly less resolute. She seemed even a little troubled. I persevered.

            “This isn’t the first time we’ve had a little difficulty but we’ve made it through all the others in the past and this will be no exception. I can change. I know you well. I know what makes you tick. I know I’m not always perfect but I can be. You’ll be my top priority and I’ll treat you just like a princess. Honestly Co-, Annabell, we can do this. Just remember all the good!”

            Her steeliness melted and a tear appeared in her eye.

            “Oh Tom. You know I’ll always care for you. You do mean a lot to me.”

            “Of course I do. We’re brilliant together. We have a real future.”

            “Maybe.” She paused. “No, I don’t mean that.” Another pause. “I’m sorry Tom, I don’t mean to mess you around. It’s not easy for me.”

            “It’s fine. I understand that you’re confused. Let’s just talk about it and we can work through it, together.”

            Quickly I strode across to her and kissed her. She didn’t stop me but responded for a moment, before subsiding. I could taste our salty tears mixed together on her lips.

            She let out a few more sobs and each gasp of her misery fuelled the flames of my hope. Suddenly, though, she stopped crying in an almost inhuman way and set herself once again.

            “No, Tom. I’m sorry to be like this but it must end. Don’t you see? We’re just not meant to be. All this struggling and straining against it is just wasting our time, postponing the inevitable. You’ll be happier without me. I know it.”

            So she drowned my hopes and tonight I sleep alone. Again.

Where's the Passion?

          The case goes on. I’m losing. I can feel my client staring into the back of my head as I stand up and present his case.

            Where’s the passion? What’s the matter with you, boy?

            I’m young for a barrister, 26. My client is twice my age, and trusts his livelihood to me.

 

*

 

            Annabell never called.

 

*

 

            I think I’ll go down to the bar again. Before I go down I’m going to have a shave. I might even add a little product to my hair. She’s not getting me down. I’ve got a lot to offer, and she needs to remember that. I’ll show her. These Leeds folk, these Northerners, they won’t know what hit ’em! I might even wear a tie… These people need to show me some respect.

 

*

 

            There was no one down there. I had a pint all on my own and pretended to read papers for my case.

            I’m going to bed.

            She still hasn’t called. Maybe I should?

Hotel Porn

            Does anyone ever actually watch porn in hotel rooms?

            Alright. If you’re booked into a room with a girl then maybe you can face the receptionist in the morning with the confidence of man at the end of a kinky night. But if you’ve been on your own? What, you’re just some loser stuck in a hotel far from any conceivable tourist attraction in the middle of the week? In my case, a blatant Southerner in the middle of Leeds. Out of place, and all alone.

            Sometimes, in this job as a barrister, I get sent miles from where I live (Oxford) to ridiculous places (Leeds) to fight cases for no apparent reason, as though there were no barristers in the entire North! Today, however, I’ll admit it’s a relief. The case I’m doing up here is three days long so it gives Annabell a little time alone to think things over and come to her senses.

            So here I sit, attached to wireless in my room, waiting for her to call. She always calls when I’m away, even when we’ve argued.

 

*

 

            I’ve just been downstairs to the hotel bar. I felt like a drink. I never drink alone. Tonight I sat there with my pint of bitter and my beard (I never usually have a beard) and pretended not to notice the raucous group of business men and women on the table next to me.

            I was noticing them. I was compelled to work out which of them was socially dominant. I decided it to be an Irish man. An Irish man without a beard. The women at the table were split into two groups. The desperate women who had attended to every detail of their make-up and straight hair and the professional women who sat up straight and stiffly sought to steer the conversation away from anything personal. These latter had also attended to every detail of their make-up and straight hair, but the make-up was less colourful and the hair was uncompromisingly pulled back and tied up. Annabell could easily have gone unnoticed amongst them. In either case this Irish man had only to wink or even blink and laughter echoed back and forth amongst the group. Those lucky few women amongst whom he’d sat were edging closer and closer. The drink had clearly been flowing for a while.

            Would Annabell be laughing at him? Would they share the same ‘humour’?

            I hated him.

            I came back upstairs.

            She still hasn’t called.

Moving On?

            As I walked home last night I came to realise that Annabell must’ve been confused. Having seen me walk out on her and then disappear for several hours she would have realised the error she’d made. On my arrival back home she’d be there, waiting for me with open arms and apologies.

            She was fast asleep.

            I wanted desperately to wake her up and explain that I was back. She would pull back the duvet, let me in and hold me close.

            I made the sofa in the lounge into a bed and lay on it, not sleeping. In the course of the night I lived through a thousand reunions. Not one scenario involved permanent separation; that could never happen.

           

*

 

            This morning I went to work as usual and answered all the usual questions from colleagues about my holiday.

            “Yes, it was lovely thanks.”

            “Thanks, I feel very refreshed.”

            “I look tired? Yeah, must be jetlag. It’ll be fine in a day or two.”

            I didn’t tell anyone about Annabell. There was nothing really to tell. We’ll work it out, just like we always do. Besides, I can’t allow them to think I’m some sort of… failure. Image matters, don’t you think? Annabell’s a beautiful girl, an asset. Those I work with have met her, they give me respect because they assume that a high calibre girl such as her would only be with a high calibre man, and that assumption matters.

 

*

 

            I returned home early this evening, before Annabell. She sometimes uses my computer and had done this morning. I was greeted with the MSN homepage still up on my screen. I pressed ‘Back’ on my browser and after a couple of clicks found myself in Annabell’s hotmail account. She hadn’t signed out properly.

            I immediately saw a number of emails from a man whose name rang a vague bell. I opened one without hesitation. Relationships are war; morals are altered.

            The email was not evidence of direct infidelity but nonetheless there was a palpable emotional infidelity contained in the words I read. This was flirtation and it was at the critical stage. Already.

 

            “Did you like the pics I sent? That gun in my hands was my only friend for six months out there in the service!! I hope you’ll excuse the desert camouflage wear – I know it’s not very flattering!!!!

            Did you have a good time in Greece with your friends? I’m sure a bunch of sexy girls like you had no difficulty having fun!!!! Maybe we can meet for a drink this week and you can tell me all about it?”

 

            Bastard.

            Annabell walked in as I finished reading. I looked at her with feeling. She wasn’t used to seeing hate in my eyes.

            “What’s the matter?”

            “Is this what’s really going on then? You want to go fuck some simple minded beef cake soldier?”

            Annabell paused, faltered slightly, and then she drew herself back up, her grey eyes flashing.

            “You read my email!”

            “You left it open on my computer. Did you do it on purpose? Did you want me to find this?”

            “No. I didn’t Tom. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

            “Nothing wrong? You’ve been flirting with another man for… god knows how long!”

            “We have to move on. You too.”

            “Move on?! We fucking live together! You’re my girlfriend of three and half years!”

            Annabell maintained eye contact with me and emotionlessly stared me down. I looked away.

            “Not anymore Tom. It’s over, and the sooner you understand that the better. For both of us.”