I wondered if she had already decided that she was going to leave last time we saw them together.
She looked radiant. She was wearing blood red pants and her face shone. Eyes-nipples-cunt. That’s all you feel when you’re in love.
She had lost weight. A lot.
He was shaking in the freezing cold outside and shivering all through dinner.
Said that his toes were ice cubes. He couldn’t get them to warm up. It hurt.
Did he know she was laughing, glowing, sweating, open, free for another woman?
It’s shocking to learn how easy it is. How you only need one moment to say: "I’m in love with someone else. Now get out of my life. Clear space. I’m transforming myself. Our room. I’m having her on the bed. And when she fucks me it tears me up deep down inside where I haven’t felt anything for such a long time. She’s what I need. She makes me complete. Compared to her full colour love, you and me, we’re history. Old newspapers on a pile. I’m taking the kids. Goodbye."
I’m appalled. How can this happen? And yet I know it’s just one look. A movement. From here to there. Hand to hair. To heart.
I know how it stings and burns the first weeks after she’s gone. It makes you smash your head against the wall. She fucks she focuses on someone else. What you are to her has shrunken into a tiny ball. You are nothing.
In the dark she strokes my back softly until I fall asleep. She says: "Maybe you need someone else. Someone different. Maybe I’m not good enough for you."
And I think: how long has it been since I smiled at her and said something nice?
I open my eyes. She’s sitting at the table, writing a letter. I kiss her neck. It’s delicious.
Sunlight splashes through the window and sets her hair on fire.