Goodbye
11pm
He sits in the parked car; glances at the clock, his heart is in his throat.
Only four hours ago he’d had everything someone else could have
wanted. And he’d left it for love. Now he has nothing, nothing.
But now what is it that he wants? He doesn’t know; he shakes his
head, his hands on the wheel: he doesn’t know. His mind thumps with
questions he can’t answer. Can’t or won’t. He flicks
the lights on, where can he go? Off. On, what will he tell people? Off.
On, is this what he deserves? Off. On, the brick wall in front of him.
Off, the brick wall gone. On. And off. Silence. On, the engine starts.
10.10pm
The silence between them is like an overdose; it pulls hard at his guts,
twists his stomach and steals the air from his chest. Did he hear Mark’s
words right? Deserve; secret; married; love; sex; gay; wife; kids; decision.
His mouth is dry; his tongue lies flat, futile against gritted teeth.
Pain rushes from his toes to his throat, chokes him like gas. No words
left to say; no words will change his mind. Pride rests alien, bitter,
jagged at the back of his throat. Why tell him? Why beg? It’s too
late, it’s over; he can see it in Mark’s eyes.
Mark stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket, pushes in his chair.
Goodbye Andrew, as he walks away. He nods once in response, glances up
from his drink; sees the door open, the rain beating down, sees the door
slam shut on his future, his dreams. Not been here since we first met,
he’d said; they’d finished where they’d started. The
voices in the bar blur in his head; blur into one. One voice asking the
same question: what has he done?
9.05pm
He walks into the bar; a pool of chatter, jazz playing in the background,
conversations scattered with laughter. He smiles; deep breath, Mark is
there; he walks over. Memory washes over him, swallowed by every pore
of his skin; two years ago, two years - was it really that long? Not been
here since we first met, as he sits down, sorry I’m late. He wants
to kiss him, to hold him, but remembers one of his own rules: no affection
in public. He wants to blurt it out - I’ve done it; imagines Mark’s
face, imagines the future in an instant. But Mark speaks first; I need
to talk to you, Andrew.
8pm
The car reverses slowly out of the drive. Rain hammers down so hard that
the wipers stagger, moan as they tremble on the glass. He can barely see
out of the rear window; his shirts are stacked on the parcel shelf - different
coloured copies of his work self. The kids wave from the front door. He
waves back. His hand drops, then raises, then drops to the wheel again.
Her arms scoop the kids back inside and the door slams shut.
7.45pm
The kitchen table; the clock ticks loudly in the background. Was it always
that loud, he wonders, or had we always filled the silence until now?
She sits opposite him. Her eyes are puffy, bloodshot, streaming. She holds
tissue to them; sniffs, sniffs, and sniffs again. The kids come in. Not
now. She whips her arm; sends them away. She asks him something. He doesn’t
hear what; hears only his heart thump, thump, thumping in anticipation.
I still want to see them. You must be joking. I’ll drag you through
the divorce courts. I’ll take everything you’ve got. But she
can’t. She can’t take everything.
She stands; slides the ring from her finger, drops it in front of him.
He watches it roll from the table to the floor to the skirting board,
watches it fall over. I hope she’s worth it. If you leave now, Andrew,
you never come back. He stands slowly, walks to the door, every step stirring
his heart. Her back to the wall, she crumples, slides down, her face in
her knees. The door closes; her arms wrap around her legs, her body crippled
with tears, the back of her head rhythmically hitting the tiles as her
chest heaves.
7pm
He looks around the room, empties his wardrobe into a travel bag; throws
in books, CD’s, jewellery: anything that’s his: his and his
alone. The kids smile at him from inside a frame. He smiles back; places
the picture carefully at the top of the bag, zips it shut. He glances
at his watch – 7pm. What time had Mark said? 8pm? Maybe he’ll
get away before she comes back. He’s a coward. He knows that. He
doesn’t want to hurt her. But he can’t keep lying, lying to
everyone. He clears the en-suite; hears the front door open; hears it
close - hears the kids laughing, her voice murmuring commands, her footsteps
on the stairs. The door opens. She stands in the room; her face confused;
her mouth open: what’s going on?
7.45pm
Mark looks at his watch – 7.45pm. What time had he told Andrew?
8pm? He picks up his book, puts it down in an instant; doesn’t remember
the words he just read: he can’t concentrate. Thoughts tangle in
his mind; he loves him, he exhales, scratches his stubble, drums his fingers
on the table. He loves him. But there’s no future; no future in
black and white lies woven with empty promises – a blanket of deceit.
He needs more than Andrew can give, more than he will give. He lifts his
glass to his lips; ice hits his teeth, slides over his tongue and down
his dry throat.
8pm
He waits at the bar. Another gin and tonic? The barmaid asks. He nods,
yes, please. Double? He nods again, glances at the clock above the bar,
thanks. Someone late? She looks behind her, the glass pressed to the optic;
God I hate it when people are late. He forces a smile; Yeah, I’m
always waiting around for him. Always. Well, least you got your book;
she puts his drink down in front of him, £3.50 then please.
He sits at his table, looks out at the rain: people run for shelter, their
clothes soaked through, their faces distressed.
9.05pm
He watches Andrew walk in and, smiling, walk over through the dense air
of smoke, music and laughter. Even now that smile almost works as he pulls
out a chair and sits down; not been here since we first met, sorry I’m
late. Almost works; but almost doesn’t count. He takes a deep breath;
his mind is made up, this all needs to stop. I need to talk to you, Andrew.
10.10pm
Silence; he’s said it; he’s said it all. And word by word,
brick by brick, a wall’s been built between them - deserve; secret;
married; love; sex; gay; wife; kids; decision. Has he done the right thing?
There was love there; there was passion there. Has he honestly done the
right thing? The last two years flash in his mind: an amalgamation of
cryptic phone calls, Christmas’ alone, awkward encounters. It couldn’t
go on; he deserves more. So why is it so hard to leave? Why does he feel
rooted in this seat? He stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket,
pushes in his chair. Goodbye Andrew, he walks away. Opening the door he
glances back; swears he sees tears in his eyes. Never seen his tears before,
never seen him cry, he thinks as he steps into the rain.
11pm
He turns on the TV. But there’s no room in his head for the sounds
and the images. He turns it off, staring through the blank screen at his
reflection. How had he ever let it get this far, let it get to love? He’d
known he was married, so is this pain what he deserves? He fills his glass,
distant from his actions, distant from everything. It was the right decision,
of course it was. His glass is empty; he fills it again with a shaking
hand and falls back in the sofa.
He wakes later; he doesn’t know the time. He peels himself from
the sofa and walks upstairs.
Opening the bathroom cupboard he sees the toothbrush Andrew had left.
Don’t go getting any ideas, Andrew had told him. He spits into the
sink, splashes the tap on, off, walks back to his bedroom.
Lying in the dark he wills himself to sleep; he rolls onto his left, onto
his back, onto his right. Don’t go getting any ideas, he hears in
his head, remembering that morning; don’t go getting any ideas.
But he had. He had been getting ideas.
