TILL DEATH

Episode One

DAY 1

A man walks alone. I watch him from my bedroom window as he stumbles through the rough scrub to the place where it fades into the dry, moonlit field. He seems old, or tired, or world-weary. I don't know why he's here, or where he's going, but I do know one thing. Wherever he's going is no place he wants to be. When he gets to the lane that leads here, only here, he drops one foot into the shadow of the trees, then the other, and he is gone. In his absence, the breaking sea below tells me to shhhh, shhhh, shhhh. I will. I will do what it says. I will keep his presence here a secret from the woman who sleeps her chemical sleep in the bed we share beneath these creaking eaves. It's been a bad week for her already. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about. She doesn't need to deal with strange men on the land in the night. Not on top of everything else that goes on in that head of hers. I will allow her this oblivion. After all, wasn't ignorance bliss? It was. It really was. But now here I am, bliss-less and awake at 3 am, alone with my memories. I spend too many nights this way, looking out at that jet black sea with blood red eyes waiting for these aching memories to leave me, but they never do. They never do. Cold, naked, I crawl back into bed next to her and hold her shoulder. My big hands look like old bark against her pale skin while the silver moon does nothing to dim her beauty. Thirty-eight but still so perfect. How can her body look so smooth when her mind is so fraught? Only the deep lines between her brows give hint at the deep cleft inside her. Her hair tumbles and flows over the pillow, the few strands of grey bright in the silver light. Somewhere in her drugged sleep she senses my touch and pulls away, leaving a chill space between us. So, apart from the stray man on the dark land, tonight is like every night, with both of us lying alone, waiting for these dim days to end.

DAY 2

The sun shines bright through a bare window and wakes me alone in an unmade bed. Beyond it, gypsy birds season the early sky. For a moment I feel sad and abandoned. Alone in bed so early. Could she not wait to be out of my company? And if she must rise alone could she not have left the curtain closed and allowed me some rest? Sleep is elusive not just for her. I remember the night before. She took her pill at 8:30 pm then retired to bed soon after. She probably woke around 5:00 am, only a couple of hours after I finally fell asleep. And she didn't leave the curtain open, I did. I remember now. I left it pulled back after watching that tired man walk alone through the fields... The image of him gives me a moment's pause, then I hear the hiss and click of the kettle and am drawn upright by the promise of coffee.

I stagger naked down the wooden staircase. It complains beneath me in a way that it never does under her, so when I arrive in the kitchen she isn't surprised. I scratch and yawn in the open doorway. She's dressed. I'm not. She glances at my nakedness, then flicks her gaze away, as if looking at me for too long would make me greedy for something she doesn't have.

"Put this on," she says, handing me a dressing gown all pretty in pink. I wrap it around myself and sit on a wobbly old stand chair by the window and look out at the yellow morning. She gets another mug from the overhead cupboard and sets it down next to her own. They don't match.

"Did you sleep wel..." I hesitate. "I mean, how did you sleep?" I reframe my question, leaving the ending open in hope of getting more than a one-word response out of her.

"Fine," she says, colder than the morning, but she hands me my coffee and it's how I like it.

"I'm going to bring in the lemon trees today," I say, rubbing my tender arms as the coffee runs through me. "It's getting colder in the mornings. I don't think it'll be long until there's a frost."

"Hmm", she manages.

I blow the steam off my mug. "I was going to put them in the sunroom..."

"Don't," she says hard, then softer, "just leave them by the door. I'll drag them in." I haven't been in that room for years. It's her studio and her sanctuary now. It used to be something else, but now, it's that. I look out of the window toward the trees by the lane, then let my bleary eyes follow the curve of the drive that emerges from it until I'm staring out over the rippled grey sea to my right. The waves break idly against the base of the little cliff our house is perched upon. I run my fingers through the tangle of black hair on my head and wonder about the man who wandered through here last night. Was he drunk? Lost? A man would have to take a lot of wrong turns to end up down here at the very edge of everything.