Eshgham

v

I wake up to the waft of morning dew and the sight of sun-kissed ceilings and billowing gossamer curtains worthy of Claude Monet's envy. The sky is draped in virgin white, and I know Yashar knows because the fragrance is everywhere. I smell myself; my wrist, my forearm, my fingers. I squeeze the pillow and bury my face in it. Any minute now the delayed panic will grip me and I'll melt like a heat exposed ice-cube. I'll wish to become like the dust particles swirling in the light. Untouchable. Invisible.

There's no sound from downstairs, but I imagine Yashar to be in the kitchen, jugging cups of coffee. God knows he hasn't slept a full night's sleep in weeks. I felt him leaving just as sun began making its ascent. Felt him press his nose to the back of my neck, his body shifting, scooting closer. Felt his soft peck. A good morning-kiss which morphed into a slow-sinking goodbye-kiss the moment his weight left the bed.

I check the drawer. I check the drawer before I check the time, and when both exceed my expectations, I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Check for panic, for confusion to make itself know from behind the unsettling smile belonging to the stranger staring back. The reformed insomniac who's slept passed noon for the first time in ages and woke up with a nest of buzzing bees in his stomach. He who's not surprised to realise that he enjoys this game of cat and mouse.

Yashar has made his move. He's left the perfume exactly where it was, despite heaving lungfuls of it this morning, and at some time opening the drawer to get to his belongings. What does that mean? Where does that leave me?

I draw up a plan in the shower and refine it as I put on a fresh set of clothes. Jay-Z sang chess not checkers. I've been playing checkers, mistaking it for chess. As becomes evidently clear when I, lured downstairs by the RnB from the speakers, find the tray of untouched food on the dining table. What really cements it though, is the bouquet of wildflowers in the vase. So delicate a touch and yet so unshakable in its message: check-fucking-mate.

My heart flutters, disturbed by the decadent display of fruits and berries. The rye toast with Swedish pålägg. The boiled egg. The oatmeal. The coffee. The tall glass of orange juice. And the little card which almost goes unnoticed.

Happy Birthday.

It's Claes' business card. Oat-white and firm to the touch, with only the insignia of his gallery on the other side. Yashar's messily scrawled happy birthday greeting is punctuated with a drawn heart. I reach out and test the coffee with my pinky. It's gone cold along with everything else on the tray. I grab the orange juice and gulp it down. Quenching the panic and saving half of it, to sip slowly as I scour the ground floor for any traces of him.

I find his phone on the credenza next to the bluetooth speakers in the living room. When I slide the screen, it opens to a Spotify playlist named Go Shawty, it's Your Birthday, filled with club bangers. The sort of music neither of us listens to regularly. My eyes snag on Lil Kim's Don't Mess with Me a few songs further down the queue, and despite knowing better, I find myself huffing a laugh.

Such theatrics.

The glass door leading out to the garden is left ajar. There's a bite in the air that makes itself known as soon as I draw closer. Of course, he would be in the orangery. Sometimes I think the only reason he's with me is because of Nan's Mediterranean greenhouse, connected through the garden. He's like Elizabeth Bennet in that scene in Pride and Prejudice when she's asked what changed her mind about Darcy, and she replies: I saw his house. Only Yashar stepped out into the garden, not expecting to see a towering glass structure overlooking the River Rib. Unlike most British orangeries, Nan's isn't synonymous with the typical conservatory but is an actual full-fledged greenhouse with citrus and hibiscus and more plants than I dare to name, but definitely cacti and palm trees.