The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

Sociopath

He holds her chair, motions for her to sit. She does. (New dress. Purple. Fitted bodice, plunging neckline. She tugs at the hem. Too short.) Looks back at him (flirty smile, eyes half-shut). Turns her head to watch him walk to his own chair. He pulls it out from under the (cheap) patio table, sits. Knee bounces; fidgeting. He’s nervous. Uncomfortable. Adjusts his (incredibly boring) tie. Thumb fiddles with his wedding ring under the table. He never stops talking. She nods, smiles, laughs. (False laugh: too deliberate. She’s humouring him.) He runs his hand through his hair (recently cut). Looks nervous. (Guilty.) Keeps glancing over his shoulder, afraid someone will see them. (I do.)

So Mary has a new lover. (Not a huge surprise. Bit fast, though.) Who is he?

Walked here from work. (Finance.) New. (Keycard clipped to his belt still shiny, unmarked.) Probably unsuccessful. (Scuffed shoes, ink on his hands, folders of papers shoved into a bag. Puffiness under his eyes. Anxious. Performance lacklustre. Not lunch (no time for a lunch break), but coffee early in the morning. Affair: distraction.)

She reaches across the table. Strokes his hand. He blushes. Bites his lip (briefly: reminds me of John). Blinks. Mary: brazenly flirting. Utterly confident. (Her shoes: silver. Also new.) She is happy, completely content. (Why?) A new conquest in front of her, evaporated guilt? Pleased that John is spending more time with me? Fewer lies to construct? Fewer nights to fill with crap telly? More time for her (beloved) affairs? Her warped status quo: John has his, she has hers. Doesn’t care anymore who’s watching. (Doesn’t see me.) Wears her wedding ring with impunity while sneaking her foot up another man’s trouser-leg. (Doesn’t matter; equilibrium. She knows where John was last night.) Doesn’t care who sees, doesn’t care what they suspect. A man and a woman with wedding bands; could be married to each other. Every married man in England could be married to her. (For a night or two, at least.) Her posture suggests victory; desired outcome achieved. A future of rotating secret lovers and one stalwart man at home, in love with a loveless, impotent beast (me). Her dream; John’s (willing) descent into hell.

Pull out phone; no texts. Send one.

You bite your lips frequently. It’s endearing. SH

The waiter arrives; they order. She laughs more than is justified. Burbling over with delight. So counter-intuitive; the more of those vows they break the happier she is. There are shadow-vows beneath the more traditional ones, the obvious ones. I’ll keep them and you can keep him.Contortions. Makes motivations harder to spot.

Have never seen Mary so easy to read; her defences are all down. She isn’t even trying to hide her tells anymore. She looks confident in her affairs and in her marriage because she is. So confident that she has me worked out (why?). To her I am no threat, I can never provide what she can (comfort, love, the simplest affection, regular humdrum conversations, what more? Surely there’s more). What has made her so certain? (John? No. He was never so certain himself.)

Phone vibrates. Take two steps back behind the tree. (I’ve seen enough.) Text from John. Affection blooms in my chest (flexing of that strange new organ there: theoretical, hormonal, chemical, metaphorical).

Is that so? :) This your way of telling me you’re thinking of me?

I see you in everything now. Nearly impossible to stop thinking of you. Such romantic thoughts.

An excellent deduction. SH

*

The place John chooses to meet Mary for lunch is an awkward one. So open, few places to sit and listen. (Deliberate? Perhaps.) Have to stand at quite a distance to watch at all. John arrives first. (Ache to touch him.) He looks even more nervous than her new financier. (Still no ring on his finger.) He’s texting. (Her? Me?)