[Originally
published by Spelk, December 2018.]
I smell the
freshness of your shirt when I bury my face in your chest. A hint of lavender
takes me to an old Italian movie, a scene where people hang their laundry on
the terrace. We play hide-and-seek between the big white sheets and rub sweaty
hands on the cotton fabric.
Who irons your
shirts like this? You never mentioned anyone. I never asked. Omission is a sin.
Lavender and heather won’t make up for it. Today, I ask the question that’s
been roaming in my head for a while.
Your gaze drifts
away and you mutter, “The one I took vows with.”
I step back.
Clench my hands and shout, “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”
You look at me
with pleading eyes, and linger, unsure.
“Out, now!” I
command.
You hesitate, then
turn around. Shoulders slumped, you drift to the door and exit my life.
I continue my
daily routines. Appear as though nothing has gone amiss to the people I come
into contact with. Only the walls of the flat and my pillow know what I go
through each night. Three months pass, and the pain’s still fresh.
On my birthday,
the doorbell rings. “Who is it?” I speak into the intercom.
“Flower delivery
for Ms Jones.”
I recognize your
voice. My heart pounds in my ears, my hands shake. My finger wavers over the
buttons. I press the green one and open the front door.
Hearing your
footsteps on the stairs, I touch my hair and smooth my dress. You reach the landing and stop just before
the doormat. Holding out a beautiful bouquet, you say, “Happy Birthday.”
Our eyes lock. I
take the flowers and say, “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
For a split
second, I’m not sure about what to do. Then, I say, “Come,” and let you into my
life, again. Why? Because that’s the way I am.
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