Who the Fuck's That Then?

          “If we’re going to be staying here much longer I might as well move into this room with you,” said Ed, striding in this morning. “In the meantime, take a look at this.”

            He’d bought a guidebook for the walk by some guy called Martin Collins. He was pictured on the front cover in a pair of 70s short shorts and a bright coloured t-shirt, standing on a sunny mountainside over a lake. I flicked through and saw a thousand days of Summer amongst grooves of Eden. It was beautiful, green, brown, white and blue.

            “Here, look at this page,” he said, pointing to a picture of a glade of wind twisted trees overhanging a tiny blue sliver of a stream winding between perfect lawn-quality grass on a mountainside. “We’ll camp here. I’ll buy cigars and a flask of whiskey. We’ll build a fire and watch the stars appear. We’ll drink the melted snow of the mountains and mix it with smoky whiskey. We’ll fall asleep there and in the morning we’ll awaken with the sun in our eyes and nothing to do but stroll down the valley in the warmth.”

            He wasn’t taking the piss. He spoke of dreams and natural kindness.

           

*

 

            We spent the afternoon thinking about it. I can’t deny I’m really taken by it now. We even started to plan a little, until…

            “By the way,” he said, offhanded, “we’ve got a double date tonight.”

            “What?”

            “A date, both of us, with two hot chicks. You know how that works right?”

            “How… What?”

            “Oh come on, you’ve fallen off the bike and now it’s time to climb back on.”

            “I’m not sure that’s a good idea at all. I’m still…”

            “…of course you’re sure, now stop being a wanker: you’re on holiday.”

 

*

 

            The date was a disaster, obviously.

            We met the girls and they were gorgeous. Ed does seem to have The Knack out here. One of them even appeared to be interested in me. As this became increasingly obvious I became increasingly mortified. I was feeling guilty as hell. What would Sharona feel if she could see it? Somehow, I wasn’t even really interested. What’s the point in all this randomness?

            “I’ve got a girlfriend,” I said suddenly, out of the blue. It silenced the conversation all around. After a momentary pause Ed spoke.

            “Who the fuck’s that then?”

            I went home and left them to it.

The Time

          I woke up alone this morning. It feels worse than I remember.

          Did I make a mistake?

            Ed says I’m bound to be asking myself that: I just have to stay strong.

            I’m not sure I’m ready for an expedition in the mountains.

Ed told me to take my time.

            I don’t even know what the time is. I haven’t worn a watch in ages.

            I just used to ask Sharona.

PunchDrunk

          Ed had a fantastic time last night. Just how fantastic I can’t say, but he certainly met those two girls, and he certainly didn’t come home with us. I have to add that they really were stunning last night, wearing short gold dresses (standard fare for the club named ‘Golden Dream’), and sporting long straight sun-blonde hair.

Ed welcomed them over as soon as he spotted them and immediately began joking and chatting away with them as though they were just anyone, and not the two most spectacular women in the place. They appeared to admire him in equal measures; it was, as I’ve already said, difficult to tell them apart. Ed may have been a very lucky man, but to be honest I haven’t asked him. There’s only so much untainted happiness anyone can have for their friends.

Sharona and I sat together and alone towards the end of the evening, lethargic and weighed down. We listened to the last song, I Would Walk 500 Miles, with total apathy and then set off back to the hotel. We went to bed and fell asleep straight away, back to back.

 

*

 

            Sharona woke early this morning and retreated into the city to do some shopping. While she was out Ed came in to see me.

            “It’s time to cut loose Tom” he said. He hadn’t even said good morning.

            “Eh?”

            “There’s never been a better time for it than now, just as we’re about to set off on our next adventure: the GR5!”

            “The what?”

            Ed explained it to me. The GR5, or Grande Randoneé Cinq, is a long distance walk from Holland to Nice in Southern France. It is thousands of miles long. Ed was suggesting we just do the most common part of the route, from Lac Lemon to Nice, a mere 440 miles, and therefore close enough to the song we’d heard the night before. At first I was horrified: more time away from work, hundreds of miles of walking, total disregard for my life at home and… the women.

            It would mean the end of Sharona, for now at least, since Ed insisted she couldn’t come, and I could not bring myself to protest strongly enough. Equally, though, it would mean several weeks until I could follow up on Annabell’s unexpected revival of interest. What if she were to turn cold again before I returned?

            Nonetheless, it represented something new and different: something that was neither uncertain or undecided, neither Annabell nor Sharona. It was an escape route, and so what? I know everyone disapproves of running away from problems but I don’t give a fuck right now. I think sometimes things need time, sometimes problems cannot be fixed immediately.

            So I decided to go.

            “Of course you will,” said Ed. “I never doubted it. Now we just have to tell Sharona.”

           

*

 

            “It’s not the end, Sharona, honestly,” I said, when we’d explained it to her. I could see her face twisting up with rage. The pitiful little girl was gone, this was the fiery creature I’d met. It almost made me sorry for my choice.

            “Who are you to tell me when it’s the end or not?” she shouted.

            “Listen, darling,” said Ed, “he’s right. This is just an adventure Tom and I need to do on our own. It’s a man thing.”

            Sharona looked apoplectic.

            “Look, here’s a sign of good faith,” he said, “have the keys to my flat, stay there while we do this.” He threw the keys through the air to her. She caught them angrily and stared at us. “Don’t take it so personally, Sharona. You always knew what you were getting with us. But we’ll be back, you’ll see.”

            But she was ignoring him; her gaze was fixed upon me. “God you’re fucked up Tom. This is all about Annabell isn’t it? Don’t look so surprised, I’m not an idiot. What’s the matter with you? You’d choose the girl who feels nothing but contempt for you over the girl who loves you?”

            She’d said too much. She put her hand over her mouth, grabbed her back and ran out.

            “Wow,” said Ed, “I didn’t see that one coming. Well… at least she’d gone now eh mate?”

           

            I punched him.

 

            Square in the eye. He went straight down, he didn’t even try to block it.

            “I’m sorry, Tom,” he said, unfazed, from the ground. “I hope you feel better now. You can do that again if you like. No? I’ll even hit you back if it’ll help. Come on, let’s go get drunk.”

Can't... Won't?

Does my name still come up, was I marvellous?

You should’ve asked yourself,

Before you turned me down.

Your name still comes up,

You are marvellous,

I should’ve told myself before I let you down,

You were marvellous.

- Marvellous, Nine Days

 

            I spent the evening last night listening to all sorts of music, reading terrible things into all of it. Had I made a mistake? The truth of it is that Sharona didn’t come back at all yesterday.

            But the worst truth is that in the end I fell asleep, and slept well…

            …until she finally crept back in. It was in the very early hours of this morning. I stirred as she slipped back under the covers behind me. I didn’t turn around to face her. Memories of yesterday were beginning to stir the mud in my head. As consciousness took hold I became excited that she’d returned to me. But I was sick in the stomach somehow, as though standing on the edge of a precipice.

            Sharona began to cry softly behind me and so I turned to her.

            “Please don’t cry,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea that someone else in this situation had emotions.

            “I’m crying because I spent all night thinking of the moment I’d return to you, thinking of the way you’d take me in your arms and tell me how much you love me. But you’re not doing that, are you Tom?” (Can’t… Won’t?)

            “I… I don’t know Sharona. I’m so confused right now, I don’t know what I feel.”

            She lay there, not moving, barely breathing. Somehow, as I’d turned, I’d taken her hand. It lay there, cold and awkward. I couldn’t let go, but I couldn’t warm it.

            “Tom?” she said, at length, “Maybe I could…” her voice was pleading, slightly pathetic. “Perhaps I could just stick around and help you work out your confusion?”

I felt contempt for her, and I hated myself for it. Is this how Annabell saw me? Out of guilt I turned my contempt to pity. I kissed her and held her close.

Whose Blood is that Sir?

          I’ve been so stupid.

            Last night I was a mess. Before leaving the internet café I logged onto an online poker site to try to take my mind off everything. Before I knew it I’d lost several hundred pounds and finished the first bottle of ginger wine. I staggered out into the night.

            I walked. And walked.

            I think I almost made it as far as High Wycombe, all the way from Oxford. I remember flashes of walking along the side of the motorway. So cold, so lonely. Everything was a blur. I remember nearly slipping onto the road. I remember nearly letting it happen.

            The next thing I knew I had a light shining in my eyes. I came to, dazed. I had a broken bottle in one hand. I was still wearing my suit from court the day before but it was all muddy.  I was stubbled, drunk and stinking. My shoes were completely fucked. It must’ve been about 4am.

            The light was coming from a police woman’s torch. At the combination of sights I leapt to my feet in confused alarm.

            “It’s okay,” said the officer, “I’m a police officer.”

            “Okay,” I said, “okay.” I was breathing hard.

            “Please put the bottle down sir.”

            I stared vacantly at the bottle in my hand for several moments, trying to understand my circumstances.

            “Am I in trouble?”

            “That depends, sir. What have you done?”

            Consciousness was beginning to assert itself in my head. I thought of telling the officer that her question was in breach of Code C.10.1 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act Codes of Practice for officers. I decided this would not assist.

            “I… I don’t think I’ve done anything. I was drunk… in Oxford. Where am I?”

            “Whose blood is that sir?”

            I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood. I gasped. “Shit!” I said.

            “Sir, please answer the question. Whose blood is it?”

            I gazed slowly at myself and then, for the first time, began to feel pain. The pain came from my palm, currently clenched into a fist. I unclenched it and saw a gouge straight across the middle. My skin was stained and sticky with old and new blood. I looked up and saw that the officer was watching me. I looked at my other hand and saw the bottle again. This time I noticed it was broken at the neck and stained with blood.

            “I see,” said the officer.

            She took me back to the station and bandaged my hand for me. I was interviewed about my activities the night before ‘just for the record’. I had to give my name. I was tempted to lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so ashamed of my state. The officer typed my name into a computer and checked the Police National Computer for my record. I held my breath. Of course, I don’t have a criminal record, but the whole situation made me nervous. I was released back to the train station in High Wycombe, relieved but rotten to the depths of my soul. If I have one.

 

*

 

            “Where the hell have you been sir?”

            My clerks were calling, precisely two minutes after I’d plugged my phone in for re-charging, safely back at home. I hadn’t even cleaned up.

            “Ughh,” I said, not having to try hard at all to sound sick. “I’m sorry, I’m so ill.”

            “Good night was it sir?”

            “God damn it, no!” I put the phone down and dashed to bathroom to throw up.

           

It’s a fucking Wednesday. What’s happening to me?

           

*

 

            I slept for twenty minutes before Ed came into my room loudly and woke me up again. I groaned sorely.

            “Good to have you back, Evans. Been out Chick-Slaying have you?”

            I groaned again. “Shouldn’t you be teaching?”

            “Free period mate.”

            He looked at me with mocking amusement. I couldn’t decide whether to tell him about my night or not. I rubbed my index finger into my palm lightly and winced. Ed shook his head and left me to go back to sleep.

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.

Unwanted Affection and Mixed Abhorrence

          All morning I sat at my desk frantic with anticipation. I finally sent a reply to Annabell last night, carefully crafted to create a perfect blend of capricious curiosity as to her current condition.

            She had not replied.

            I was supposed to be working but could not. Perhaps the wording had been wrong. Perhaps she had wanted more… affection. Maybe I needed to demonstrate my continuing commitment.

            I still had keys to our flat… I thought… and knew I shouldn’t. But I did.

 

*

 

            I slipped quietly in just before six this evening, a little in advance of her return. A few of my things were still about providing the perfect alibi. I was glad to note no sign of others. No new tenant; no new... other. The photos that we’d displayed about the flat were all gone or turned face down. No doubt she didn’t want the reminders of what we’d had.

            She returned a little before seven. She was a little surprised to see me sitting in the living room but no alarmed. She responded to me coolly. I had hoped perhaps for a hug or… something. She established the purpose of my return and accepted it unemotionally.

            “Perhaps we could go for a drink before I leave?” I suggested.

            “Alright,” she said, and my heart skipped a beat, “but it’s not a date, Tom. You do understand that?”

            I kicked my heart back into life. “Of course,” I replied, “I know,” I added, more quietly.

           

*

 

            In the end we decided to have dinner at a local Pizza Express. She spoke exclusively of her job: office politics, successful cases, fascinating points of law. She asked me my views on them occasionally and I responded with forced interest. She did not ask me about my life.

            I tried to switch the conversation several times, in vain. I wanted something more emotional from the meeting. How could we pass from lust and love into passive dissection of a lawyer’s day?

            “Damn, Annabell!” I blurted.

            “What?” She asked, and waited silently.

            “Nothing… I suppose,” I said, after a few moments.

            She paused, sighed slightly and then addressed herself to me, setting herself straight in her chair before she began. “Tom, you’re just worried you’ll never do better than me.” She paused again though from her expression I could see this was not an invitation to reply. “You’re wrong, Tom. You will do better, I know you will.”

There was a flash of kindness in her eyes now, the emotion I so desperately sought. I paused awkwardly, caught between unwanted affection and mixed abhorrence at the presumptions.

She looked about briefly. Dinner was over, we’d paid. It was time to go home.

“You can sleep on the couch Tom.”

Lunch?

            I’ll come over tomorrow morning to get the rest of my stuff.

            My text message to Annabell this afternoon. Should I have added an ‘x’ to the end?

            Moments later my phone began ringing.

            “Hi!” She said, cheerily. Nervously?

            “Hello.” I replied.

            “So, you’re coming over tomorrow?”

            “Yes.”

            “Tom… won’t you stay for lunch? I’ll be cooking for myself anyway…”

            “Ed’s coming to help me.”

            “Oh.” They hate each other so thoroughly. “He can join us then.”

            I was astounded. Momentarily silenced. “Really?”

            “Of course. It’ll be good to see him again.” Now I knew something was the matter.

            “Annabell, are you okay?”

            She didn’t reply straight away, but then spoke with a slightly shaky voice. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’d just like to see you. I… miss you.”

            Confusion washed over me. What did she want? I agreed to stay for lunch and hung up. I spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, working through every possible scenario for tomorrow morning. I thought of every permutation of every conversation. By the time Ed returned home from teaching I was exhausted.

            I didn’t tell him about the conversation.

Love is Limited

          Today I had to go to Liverpool for a case. I was instructed to obtain an order for the sale of someone’s house. A debt was unpaid and so somebody was going to lose their house. Do I feel bad? No. It’s a necessity for any functional society. Besides, it’s not like they’ll be homeless.

            I was sitting in the waiting room in Liverpool County Court, waiting for my case to start when all of a sudden I saw Laura Roberts walk in. She took my breath quite away, such was my surprise to see her.

            Many are the moments I’ve thought of Laura. We met over dinner at Lincoln’s Inn (one of the four Inns that all barristers belong to) about two and a half years ago. I was with Annabell at the time but for just that evening I forgot all about her. As soon as I set eyes on Laura I was somehow drawn to her. I sat beside her and we connected instantly. The evening passed very fast and eventually we found ourselves alone in a nearby bar. I remember that we were discussing the subjects we’d studied. She’d done music, English and mathematics. I told her that her pursuit of Truth was admirable and she denied it. She claimed instead to be a realist, interested in only that which was tangible. I considered her choice of study was esoteric, romantic, but she could only tell me that love is limited. I fought her on the point immediately. She encouraged my romance yet denied its truth. I told her there was no room for realism in love, only in life, and the she should never find happiness if she could not abandon herself to someone, dream. For what is life without dreams? And this led to a discussion of utopian impossibilities.

            Suddenly she said she had to go. She said we’d meet again one day.

            Now here she was.

            “Laura!”

            She glanced at me absently for a moment until she placed me, then visibly blushed and pushed her hair back from her face. She had thick black hair and deep brown eyes. She wore a black skirt suit with a simple white blouse. She was gorgeous.

            “Tom, isn’t it?” She sat down beside me.

            We spoke for a few minutes about our respective cases and then paused, awkwardly looking at one another and smiling.

            “You did say we’d meet again.”

            “Yes. I remember that.” She looked down shyly.

            Suddenly the court usher called on my case. I quickly said goodbye and went into court.

            After the case, when I emerged, she had gone. I asked the usher if she was in court somewhere. He smiled benevolently at me and chuckled slightly. Over familiar, I know, but I let it go. He told me that she’d been in and out of a different court room since my case started. I’d missed her. Disappointed, I checked my watch and realised I could catch the next train back home if I hurried.

            On my way home I thought a lot about Laura. Maybe I could survive on my own. A girl like Laura only comes around once every few years, but there she was, apparently living up in Liverpool. Perhaps I could get in touch with her somehow, on facebook or something, and then meet up. Eventually I suppose she might even agree to move down to London… At any rate, the point is: there are other girls out there. All over the place. Laura is even a more than respectable type of girl. Trained as a barrister. Quite the right sort.

 

*

 

            When Annabell arrived home today I told her I was prepared to move out. Last night we’d ignored each other completely and I didn’t feel like the angst anymore. It was time to deal with the situation. She took the news very neutrally. I wanted more from her, as always.

            “Did you hear me? I’m going.” I said. She didn’t react. “I still don’t think it’s the right thing to do. It’s still not too late.” I added. Whatever the confidence I’d gained I was still under no illusion, I was unlikely to do better than Annabell, and we were already set up together. She was the best option.

            “I’m glad, Tom. It’s for the best.”

            Then she started talking about her day again. She told me all about the crimes she’d prosecuted and even described in minute detail a random law she’d found to help win the day. Ordinarily I tolerate this kind of thing. After all, she was my girlfriend and I was happy that she was successful. But now? If she thought I’d be happy for her to stand there bragging to me about her job, when I couldn’t have her, couldn’t lay claim to her successes and be proud of them as though they were my own, well, she had another think coming. At this point in time, more than ever, it would’ve done no harm to actually have a meaningful conversation, show a little emotion. I snapped.

            “God. You know what Annabell? I can’t take this anymore. I’m leaving right now.”

            “Well that’s fine Tom, but there’s no rush.”

            “Fucking hell. You don’t get it do you? You’re like some kind of machine. Don’t you ever feel anything?”

            “Of course.” Her unaffected gaze betrayed her words.

            I grabbed the bags of things I’d packed earlier in the week and practically ran out of the house. I called Ed and he was only too happy to take me in again. In fact, he saw it as my duty, my destiny, even.

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 </