Her lips tear away from my own. But I can still feel her hot breath on my skin. Clinging to me.
“I’m sorry” she whispers. And her breath smokes, so for an instant I can no longer see her face. But I can still taste her lips. The bitter taste of her last cigarette. Clinging to my tongue.
“Why?” I whisper in reply, and I lean forwards so my forehead is resting on hers, and our noses are touching. Her skin is cold. I want to hold her.
“I’m sorry” she repeats, shaking her head a tiny fraction, tilting her chin away from me. She blinks too quickly, as though she’s trying not to cry. One, two, three. And then she wriggles away. And somehow I let her go, slipping through my outstretched fingers like thin smoke and melting seamlessly into the darkness. I hear her key in the lock next door. And I hear the door creak on its hinges as it swings shut. And she’s gone, like shadows when you click on a light. Disappearing silently into the dark places. And I’m left in the cold. Darkness wrapping itself around my body, touching me with icy fingers. I step into the kitchen and close the door. I lean back against it, closing my eyes and remembering precisely how her lips felt on my own. The exact flavour of her breath, the minute flecks of gold light that flickered through her hair and seemed to press through my veins.
And suddenly I realise that I’m on the cold tiles, breathing like I’ve been running. My heartbeat racing away from me, chasing hopelessly after her. I touch the thin wall with the tips of my fingers, wondering if she’s right there, just a thin piece of ply-board separating us. Ply-board and a thousand moonlit miles. But surely if she were there I would be able to feel her bodyheat. If her heart were racing double, triple time like my own, I would surely be able to hear it. Wouldn’t I?
I stand up, shivering helplessly. I pull off my jacket and kick off my trainers that are dusted with silvery ice. I pause, bare feet sticking to the tiles, my hair curling loose down my back, my fingernails bitten too short. So short they hurt me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so young before, nor so impossibly old. I wish I were twenty-five, with a husband and a little child and a job in an office and an estate car. Or I wish I were seven again, playing on the cobbled streets, all second-hand Barbie dolls and sticky cheeks and grubby hands. Anything but here, and now. I want some other life.
I walk slowly through the dark kitchen, through the pitch black hallway. No, I don’t walk, I float. I feel as light as air. I feel as though I could walk on water, or if I stretched out my arms, I could surely fly. I step onto the freezing tiles of the tiny, matchbox size bathroom. I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering nervously above the light switch. And then I click it, instantly illuminating the whole room with the kind if bleached white glow you only get from an exposed filament lightbulb. I stumble over my own feel as though I’m drunk, and I step towards the sink. Black and white tiles like a chessboard, all sticking to my bare feet.
I want a hot shower because I’m numb to the core, but I don’t know how to turn the hot water on. I want to go to sleep because Cheryl captivates my every conscious thought. But I don’t know how to stop thinking about her. I want to go next door because I feel as though my heart is going to burst under the pressure of all the things I’m not brave enough to say. But I don’t. Because I can’t. And she doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want me. She wants a boy who makes her cry. A boy who leaves bruises on her body and blood on her lips. A boy who can clip the wings from her heart. A boy who couldn’t possibly love her as she deserves to be loved.
He must hold her hand. Hold her as she sleeps. Hold her heart in his shaking hands. Kiss her lips. I close my eyes. Blotting into darkness.
I can feel vomit rising at the back of my throat. Blinding me. Making my hands clutch convulsively at the sides of the sink. It feels like grabbing hold of ice. Freezing. Slippery. I just wish I could hold her hand. Hold her heart in the palm of my hands, just like he does. I hate him, god knows, I hate him. But I’m oddly jealous of him too. With his easy, cold, confidence. The kind of swagger that emanates from some teenage boys. The way she looks at him. The way her lips don’t tremble as she kisses him. The way she breathes his name as though it’s somehow special, holy, sacred even.
