Read by Gloria Sanders - full podcast here.
It’s humid on the balcony. The street below emits only a quiet hum, its buzz weighed down by the heat. I let my body linger for a while, taking solace in the silence before watching it sway in the reflection of the sliding door. The throbbing in my right foot is like a mimic of my heartbeat. Everything is so rhythmic – so slow.
Paul’s blurred silhouette paces around the kitchen, disrupting the mirror-image as he tries to find something to clean up the blood. I want to tell him to check the third drawer on the left, but I refrain. Because I can’t remember how it got like this. I can’t remember when this stopped being fun.
It started happening again around the third time I stayed at Paul’s. I was waiting for him to return from his morning run. I sat alone on the balcony, watched the early traffic erupt below, listening to the agitated sounds of engines working on overdrive. My body felt restless, the day had only just begun. I picked pebbles out of the plant pot, throwing them at the cyclists below until it began to rain. Then I retreated into the kitchen.
At this point I’d only known Paul for a few weeks. In some ways he felt no different to the others: cold, slightly condescending. But he could be kind, he’d turn a blind eye when I’d say the wrong thing or spend too long staring at my phone on our way to dinner. If I played my cards right, learnt his ways, this could be different than all the times before.
I grew bored staring at the rain-smattered windows; the simple task of waiting became taxing. My fingers tapped frantically on the counter tops. I could feel it, the thrill.
I swore I wouldn’t do it again, not after the last time.
But the desire turned my attempts to stop into a deliciously blissed-out hum. I could feel it tight in my chest, the rising heartbeat, a chance to hold something between my hands– something I shouldn’t possess, something that shouldn’t be mine. I let it consume me, the need to dive deep and become acquainted with his belongings, the sides of him I hadn’t yet had the chance to meet. I wanted the search for something new, something I could take home and selfishly call mine. So I allowed my bare feet to tiptoe across the laminate floor and lead me to the bedroom.
Its grey, rather dull interior suddenly possessed a new light in the wake of new opportunity. There was anticipation on my tongue, a ringing that twinkled in my ears – I couldn’t stop now. I had no time for what ifs or contemplations of the past. I couldn’t think about the last time things went wrong. How last year I left the bathroom door unlocked, unaware of the footsteps on the stairs, rummaging through the cabinets, searching for something, anything-
No, no time for that.
No, this won’t be anything like last time.
By the time Paul had arrived home I was back in the kitchen, once again watching the windows, staring out into the world behind them. I’d managed two laps around the bedroom before settling on a brown leather watchstrap. I’d taken photos with my phone of the way he folded his underwear, repositioned the candle on the bedside table and noted how almost clinical his organising skills seemed. I was agitated when he suggested making breakfast, my hands placed firmly in my coat pockets, my right hand fully acquainted with the leather of the strap. Paul seemed to notice my mood and took the time to mimic my frustration, letting out short breaths as we walked around each other to get to the toaster, only communicating in hums of request.
Excuse me. Finished? Thank you.
9:45am: time for me to go. As we walked back to the station, he continued the unspoken argument outside. He was growing annoyed at me.
We’re not in a rush, you can slow down.
I nodded, Of course, no yeah, sure.
He couldn’t hold my gaze when we said goodbye, and instead he let out a sigh, told me he cared for me, but we wouldn’t be doing this again.
I rode the tube to the end of the line, unsure how much time had passed, my mind racing. My hands remained firmly in my pockets, my right thumb tracing the grooves on the watchstrap over and over. Its contour lines led only to the thought of him. Because what if he knew? What if I’d ruined it before it had actually begun? Perhaps he had just grown bored of me, thought I was too much of an effort, there was too much to correct, not enough time. Perhaps the watchstrap should have been a parting gift.
But I only had to wait a couple of weeks before I was picking up his calls again.
Was I in the area, fancy getting a drink?
Yes!
I spent the night questioning if he had always been that boring, or if our time apart had made him seem duller than I remembered. Still, I kept in high spirits, not wanting the questions to start, not wanting to be accused. I was engaged when he told me the top ten things he wanted to achieve by the time he was 35, laughed at the three stories he kept in constant rotation. I was polite, left my phone zipped in my bag and on silent, asked only about work, a little about the rugby.
I toyed with the idea of bringing up his ex-wife, whose pictures were in the bottom drawer of his dresser, face down in a small tin box alongside some other things she’d left behind – or he’d been unable to get rid of.
Instead, I smiled and nodded when he said everything at work had been ‘mad’. Things with him were always ‘mad’, never hectic nor busy – just ‘mad’. They had been so ‘mad’ in fact that that was the reason why things had been so off at the station.
I thought it would be better if we spent some time apart, I suppose I was wrong.
I pinched the top of my thigh as he said it, as though to make sure I’d heard what he’d just revealed. He hadn’t suspected a thing. I laughed a little, had fun with it, acted coy when I joked about him leaving me in the dark. I smoothed my hair.
And this feels good, doesn’t it? I smiled.
It almost felt as though we were having fun.
*
Perhaps it was better back then. This wasn’t yet routine. I wasn’t yet fully accustomed to the layout of his things. I didn’t know where he hid the really sentimental things (in a wicker box in the TV cabinet, that contained baby pictures and birthday cards dating back to around 1990). Or where he hid the things of real value (all over the place, but the majority kept in the bedroom, things like cufflinks, his watch and bizarrely, a pair of Baccarat candle sticks). Back then, I could creep around the corridors in the middle of the night, wrap a blanket around my shoulders and just wander. Take note of the surroundings, snapping photos of the rather unpleasant prints that decorated the walls, and when Paul would stir from the bedroom, wondering where I was, I could say politely, I can’t sleep, where exactly did you say you kept the coffee again?
But it was getting worse now. I was getting sloppy with it, ushering things into my bag with nonchalance. Just last week it was a rather ugly paperweight. I held it in my hands as we watched the television.
This is sweet, I smiled.
Paul nodded in some sort of acknowledgement and on our way to bed, I dropped it into my bag.
Perhaps it was the heat that was making me reckless. Finding its way into my bones, slowing me down, making me clumsy-lethargic. Sometimes at night we lay side by side, with the covers kicked off the bed, and talked for hours, both of us too hot to sleep. But through it all my mind would be racing, chest tightening, the need becoming nauseating. Somewhere along the way it had tipped over from the occasional, straight into the obsessional.
Do you ever wonder if you’re a good person? I asked Paul one night, but he was already asleep.
But it was all over now, that was definite. I knew it as soon as he ushered me out here onto the balcony. His face mottled with anger, short breaths that said the unsaid, proved him a liar when he insisted it was fine. His hand was placed firmly on my back, a line of blood traced behind my right foot, the glass most likely now compacted into my sole. I didn’t need to pretend to be startled: I hadn’t expected the picture-frame to be so flimsy when I’d taken it off the wall and into the bedroom to see if I could fit it into my bag.
I had to pretend I wanted to see it in a better light when Paul ran in after hearing the smash of glass. Its shattered fragments surrounded me like little specks of glitter. How wrong they were. I tried to hide as much as I could, kicking shards under the bed with my foot. The pain only began to surface once I’d been caught.
What are you doing?
Nothing, it’s nothing.
Now I’m sitting on the balcony floor. Watching him open and close the cabinets with force. I begin to pick at the glass in my foot with precision, arranging the pieces in a semi-circle. Some are tiny flecks, others larger shards. I don’t want to scream, but I do it anyway – the world around me now seems too silent, too still. A dog barks in the distance in response, as I wait for the usual sounds of the early morning to begin. Longing for the ambulance siren, the random chatter of a phone call down on the street below – even the shriek of the crossing lights.
Bizarrely, I begin to long for Paul, that blurred silhouette who is trying to piece together what exactly has happened here, what exactly I’ve done. My Paul, who’s probably realising the time he couldn’t find his hipflask for his cousin’s wedding was because I’d taken it, claimed it as my own. My Paul, who’s beginning to comprehend that the things he once believed were pure coincidence, were actually my careful patterns.
I want him to look at me, slamming my hands against the glass, trying to catch his attention, better yet crack his attempt at ignoring me. Why didn’t he just kick me out? What use is this, sat outside in the dead heat like some reprimanded child? Am I supposed to learn my lesson, thou shalt not steal?
But it was never meant to be like this, this used to be fun.
It takes him a while to finally feel the fury. I watch the eruption, one that puts the others to shame. His slamming of doors, shouts of violence and eyes of wildfire. It radiates through the glass, creating muffled threats.
And it’s humid on the balcony, I let the heat permeate my skin, close my eyes and shut out the pain. My body lying back on the stone floor, waiting for the moment he wears himself out and either leaves, or asks me to.
And if this goes the way it usually does, if we end it the same as all the others, I will apologise, ask to stay, and he’ll start up again. Probably throwing my bag at me, spitting words I perhaps deserve to hear. Then I’ll limp home, crawl into the bath, run cold water over my feet and surrender to the pain.
But it’ll be over soon enough, it always is.
(c) Georgina Sims, 2023
Gloria Sanders (left) returns to the cast of Time Will Tell’s Dracula at Whitby Abbey in 2024. She has enjoyed narrating audiobooks for over a decade and has worked as an historical interpreter at heritage sites around the country, training in clowning and historic fooling. She is a qualified Spanish Interpreter, working with Crowded Room on the co-created documentary La Lucha. She produced Deepfakes by Sarah Blake for Cabinets of Curiosity. See more at www.gloriasanders.com
Georgina Simsis currently studying for a Master’s in Creative Writing and Publishing, and recently graduated with a BA in English and Creative Writing from Queen Mary, University of London. She has previously been published in the Queen Mary, University of London literary journal Subtexts with her short story ‘Reaper’.
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