Perfect Weather for Poets

Monty stretched his right arm along the back of the wooden park bench but Fiona was just out of his reach.

She checked her phone for the fifth time.

'Are you sure you want to be here?' he asked, glancing at her phone as if trying to figure why it held her attention so completely.

'Yep, just keeping an eye on the time.' She pitched her voice low.

'Am I supposed to guess what's going on?'

Fiona looked up, focusing her eyes straight ahead. The sky was the colour of gunmetal and a brisk wind stirred the river; rain couldn't be far away. She thought of another time here: they'd huddled close for warmth and Monty had said, 'Winter in Hobart is perfect weather for poets.' That day, as she remembered it, the pink sunset had been diffused through soft white clouds – or had it been mist? The silvery water had made Fiona think of mercury. Now she thought of lead.

A muscle in the back of her right thigh began to twitch, causing her knee to shake. She crossed her left leg over her right. Calm, stay calm, not long now.

'Is it cold feet about the wedding?' he spoke softly.

She recognised the cajoling tone: he'd seen the tell-tale sign of her nerves and was thinking that, whatever her 'problem', he'd talk her out of it. Not this time.

For a long time, the thought of getting married had  been in the back of her mind. Just not before he'd finished his studies and they'd spent time travelling. She had been prepared to support him for two or three years. But five years had passed and nothing had changed. When she'd talked to him about finding a job he'd brought up the subject of marriage; he hadn't actually proposed, rather suggested that it was something they should start thinking about for 'the future'. She'd countered with, 'Not until you've got a job,' and hoped that he would start looking.

When he'd announced, at his niece's christening, that they'd been discussing marriage, his overjoyed parents pressed them to set a date. Fiona was uneasy but couldn't bring herself to contradict him in front of his family. The response from her side was different: her oldest friends, Caro and Wally, hadn't tried to hide their concern and her mother was on a mission to talk her out of it. Can't wait for the 'I told you so'.

Looking back now she could see a pattern: Monty would make a decision which he'd put to her as a suggestion – usually when she was distracted: like when she was flat out at work or her parents were fighting. He'd take her lack of response as agreement and the suggestion would become reality. That's probably how we ended up living together.

However that wasn't the reason they were sitting on a cold wooden bench looking across the wide water and not at each other.

Monty cleared his throat. 'Is it because of the thing I had with Lissa? It was just physical, we needed to get it out of the way...'

'Actually, I didn't know, not for sure...' She shrugged. So what? It doesn't matter now.

'...But in any case, no, not the reason.' She checked her phone again. A few more minutes and it would be over.

'So it's not cold feet and it's not Lissa. Why run out on me when I'm getting close to—'

'Close? You aren't close! You're too busy with everything else: the music, the poetry, that stupid online magazine. All those "projects" that have bugger-all to do with your degree – no wonder you keep asking for extensions.'

'I thought you understood?'

'I do. Now.'

The lights burst on at the sports oval on the other side of the river; towers of brilliance in the dark afternoon. At the same moment her phone vibrated.

Fiona glanced at the little screen. She breathed out and uncrossed her legs. It didn't matter now if he noticed but, strangely, the twitching had stopped.

Monty raised his voice, 'As I was saying. I thought—'

'Shut up.'

He stared at her.

'Remember last week when we had yet another meeting with your parents about the wedding?'

He nodded.

'I overheard you and your father.' She paused for effect. 'His exact words were, "I'll sell half your shares." And you replied, "With Fiona's savings we should have a reasonable deposit for a house".'

'Your point?' His voice was tight.

'I've supported you: I've paid the rent, the bills; bought the food, cooked the food...'

'I cook – sometimes.'

'But you have "shares" – enough to put towards a deposit on a house. Forget that I want to travel before I get bogged down with a mortgage. You have "shares". '

'My grandmother left me money. Dad invested it. I thought you knew.'

'Why would I? You only mention money when you want to "borrow" some. You know what?' Her voice rose; there was no longer a reason to keep herself in check, 'I've just realised! You despise the idea of working for a living.'

'Fifi,' he crooned and slid close to her. 'I'm sorry you think that, but look at it from my point of view...'

'Not interested.' Fiona turned and faced him. 'As soon as I work out what you owe me for the last five years I'll send you a bill.'

He sat bolt upright. 'You're not serious.'

'I just got a text. Caro and Wally have finished packing your stuff. It's all out on the street.'

'You...'

'And the locks have been changed.'

'Bitch!' He leapt to his feet and ran away along the esplanade.

'Looks like rain,' she called after him. 'Perfect weather for poets.'

The End 

Copyright: Kathy Gates 2015