The Function to Breathe

Four

2015

By the time I get to work on Monday I actually feel a bit more human.

It turns out to be as quiet as Friday was and Jack and I pass our time in the same way, doing the crossword and chatting between serving the occasional customer. An hour or so before we're due to close the gallery is deserted. We're seriously considering closing early and going home – or to the pub – when the door opens and a single customer walks in. I look up from the article I'm reading and am once again stopped in my tracks.

Ricky is standing by the closed door, his hand still flat against it as he stares across the gallery at me. "Hello Cat," he says, moving away from the door and towards where I'm sitting at the counter.

"Hi," I reply quietly, fiddling with a loose strand of hair, a nervous habit I've had for years. I glance from Ricky over my shoulder to Jack and back again, not knowing what to say.

Ricky walks over to the counter and leans against it right in front of me, gazing at me. I turn away and close my magazine, wondering what on earth is going on. Wondering why Ricky is here.

In the silence Jack stands up, grabs his coat and touches my shoulder as he walks behind me. "I'll pop out for a bit my lovely. See you later." At the door he turns the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed' and then disappears down the street.

"Are you and he...?" Ricky starts, then raises one eyebrow, finishing the question wordlessly.

Were Jack and I a couple? I shake my head, "No, not at all. We're friends, he's my boss."

Ricky nods and continues staring at me, those blue eyes fixed on me. I am finding it hard to breathe and I still have no idea what to say. My heart is pounding, it feels as if it's one of those comedy hearts you see in cartoons, actually leaping out of my chest, all bright red and pulsating. I'm surprised Ricky can't hear it; it's thundering in my ears.

Neither of us says anything. He looks at me; I look at the lock of hair I've been fiddling with. I can't meet his gaze; I don't know quite what will happen if I do look at him.

Why has he come back? I wish he hadn't. I was doing okay, it had taken me the best part of eighteen years, but I was doing okay.

I pluck up my courage and look up at him. "What are you doing here?" I ask, repeating the question he'd put to me a few days earlier.

"I wanted to see you Cat, without... without anyone else around." He takes my hands, stopping me from playing with my hair, and squeezes them gently. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since Friday."

The air disappears from the room again, just as it did the first time he looked at me on Friday. I shake my head. "Don't Ricky, please don't..."

"Don't what?"

"I don't know." I shake my head again. He's still holding my hands. It's wrong, but I can't bring myself to pull them away; his touch feels so warm and familiar.

"Where's Lesley? Does she know you're here?" I blurt out. Maybe it's an unkind or unnecessary thing to say, but I can't help it.

"She went back home yesterday, she's got work today. And no, she doesn't know I'm here. Cat, I've spent all day plucking up the courage to come and see you again."

"I wish you hadn't." I whisper. That was definitely unkind... and also not completely true.

"Do you mean that?" He asks, equally quietly, sounding hurt.

"I don't know." I say again. I don't know; I truly, truly do not know if I mean that or not. I don't know anything anymore.

To my shame I start to cry. What starts with my eyes prickling and a single tear forming quickly becomes a flood; big, hot, fat tears spill over and start to roll silently down my cheeks. One drips off my chin and lands with a plop on the painting in front of me: I'm vaguely aware of it diluting the paint, making a huge water mark and ruining the tiny art work. I put my hands over my face, hunching over and letting my loose hair fall forwards, trying to hide. I want to run away but there is nowhere to go.