Spare

Today’s departure took place in the dark. First my alarm, then his, and his fumbling through drawers as though in a rush, even though the alarms had been set with time to spare, even though I knew he hadn’t slept well.

Several times in the night I had woken momentarily and he had hugged me and whispered that he loved me. His voice in the darkness. Each time, I said it back. Now as he left the room to shower, I lay in bed in my pyjamas and felt naked.

In the kitchen, turning on the coffee machine and warming the cups, I listened next door, to the drumming of water on the shower tray and to the extractor fan, aware that these things were transient, fleeting, and like everything else this morning would soon abruptly stop.

It was still dark when we sat together at the kitchen table, the ceiling light turning the empty window into another room, where another couple sat drinking coffee, their silence more obvious than ours.

We hugged a last time, said I love you a last time, and I watched at the window as his tail lights made slow progress up the hill – this part not transient, not fleeting.

I lingered at the sink. I lingered, unsure what to do next. There were several things that would usually take place around this time. I could wash the cups. I could feed the dogs. I could shower. None of these seemed appropriate or desirable. I thought about writing this, but didn’t. I went back to bed and pulled the sheets up to my chin.

*

I’m sorry that I lied. Drinking our coffee, I told him that it would be light soon and that he wouldn’t have to leave in the dark, that I had been up at this same hour recently and remembered that it hadn’t taken long for the sun to rise. But the day I was referring to was some weeks ago, and probably it hadn’t been as early. At any rate, it was a good hour after his departure that light crept under the bedroom blind,