Stopping the slide of time.
Hiding in plain sight
The story of our life
Written in a fading hand.
Worn smooth
Like a penitent's step
We knew the storm was coming.
Translate the past
To brighten the future,
It's just the beginning.
Peering over earl grey or darjeeling,
Where else would we go?
My history and yours
Joined together and apart.
Drive, sit, drift, move on.
The untimeliness of death.
Memory's doors a locked casket.
It’s all I ever heard: redemption song. Like a stuck record but one that always lifted my spirits.
The bruises are fading but the pain is still real and here he is in the shine of the spotlight calling me names. Not the ones he calls me when Jack Danniels comes to town: stupid, fat, ugly. Those have fallen into darkness along with the rest of the ugliness. Tonight he is repentant, attentive, apologetic.
The dinner is cooked. Steamed broccoli and almonds with a fillet of seabream each, hollandaise on the side. The table is laid with my favourite china and crystal.
He doesn’t say sorry, he lets his efforts speak for him. He is a child without sufficient vocabulary, holding out a present wishing to make amends. There is a part of me that wants to tell him to go. What is this? It’s not enough to make up for… even I stop short of speaking its name.
Should I show him the marks on my skin, the bruising on my arms? Seeing them will not help him feel the pain he caused me.
‘Kitten, there you are. I was worried about you. You’re back so late.’
This is how it’s going to be then. We do not speak its name, the skeleton that comes out of the closet. To name it is to goad it. Keep silent, let the moment pass into history. Guide me, Oh, thou great redeemer, teach me forgiveness.
Look how wonderful he can be. This is what he wants. How he sees himself. How I should try to see him. If I am better, more careful he will be able to keep the other self at bay.
He comes towards me. I flinch.
‘Your coat, madam.’ He says it smoothly, brushes a kiss onto my cheek. I feel my body grow rigid and am suffused with guilt. Why am I reacting like this when he is being so kind? I suppress the quiet voice in my head that tells me: you know why.
And then it happens. The moment that spins on a dime: heads or tails. The fate of the evening, our future, rests in this moment. I know this. It is a dance that has become more familiar of late.
‘That’s a nasty cut over your eye, Kitten. Stitches?’
He tuts gently as if reprimanding a careless child, waits a beat.
‘How did that happen?’
He is standing behind me. I can feel the heat of him, his physical presence. I stutter, feel my face flush. My voice is small, hesitant.
‘Oh, I… a cupboard in the kitchen at work. It was opened and I didn’t see.’
‘You really should be more careful, my love. You can be such a clutz.’
